The Revelation Trilogy: The Reaping
by AthenaSophia85
Summary: Sergeant Kelly Remington was simply living a quiet life as a prison guard. But when Dean and Sam Winchester are brought into her prison through the machinations of the warden, the predictability of Kelly's life quickly unravels. In the end, her choices are few: clear her name of the crimes she didn't commit...or embrace the Hunter within and claim her birthright at the Crossroads.
1. Diggin' My Own Grave

"_I tried to stop, but I'm in too deep,_

_The pain inside won't let me sleep._

_I bit the hand from which I feed,_

_Now the guilt inside gonna' make me bleed._

_Tell me Lord, why oh why,_

_You got me with a spade by my side,_

_Diggin' my own grave?"_

"**Diggin' My Own Grave"**

**Nik Ammar**

* * *

><p>I met the Winchester brothers while I was at work. Which wouldn't have been too dreadfully unusual…except that I worked at an all-male prison. This meant, of course, a number of things, but not least of which was that I spent a copious amount of time pretending to be completely impervious to their charms. Or, at least, to the eldest's charms; the younger one seemed mostly polite and deeply apologetic for his brother's outrageous behavior.<p>

It was unusual to have siblings assigned to the same institution, but I didn't think much of it. After all, from time to time, fathers and sons ended up together behind bars. A pair of brothers wasn't too unusual. I didn't even know them by their real names at first: they were in the system as Pete and Ed Pevensie. I'd had a hearty laugh at that, but didn't think anything of it at the time. Apparently, their parents had been Narnia fans and took advantage of their last name. I'd seen stranger names in prison, after all.

It would take me a little while after everything went down, to realize that the _warden_ was also a huge Narnia fan.

"Pete" gave me the hardest time, no pun intended. From the first day he strolled into the dorm, issued sheets and clothes held firmly in arms that were a little difficult to ignore, he'd seemed to have singled me out. I had no idea why – I worked in a prison, so I made no effort to primp. I didn't wear makeup, I didn't style my mid-back-length hair (besides twisting it up into a bun that usually tried to unravel halfway through my shift), and I didn't make any attempt whatsoever to come across as anything except stern, blunt, and aloof.

Maybe he had a uniform fetish, or maybe he just thought I was an easier target to con. My personal theory was that he just liked my chest; it wouldn't be the first time a man had tried to woo his way into my pants on that fact alone and "Pete's" eyes had a tendency of lingering on the center of my torso entirely too often for comfort. Whenever I caught him staring, I reminded myself of something one of my fellow service members had once said: there was no uniform ever made that could hide the fact that I was a generously gifted woman.

"Ed" was his brother's constant, looming shadow; I often chuckled at the height difference between the two. The younger one usually drifted about in his brother's wake with an air of faint exasperation. I guessed, based on the dynamic, that the elder was the one who had roped his sibling into their current state of affairs. "Pete" had the manner of a man who was frequently roping people into compromising positions.

Pun _totally_ intended.

I worked the night shift, so I saw quite a lot of "Pete" and "Ed" – in a number of interesting ways. Being a female correctional officer in an all-male institution meant that I saw my fair share of male bodies in various stages of undress. After about a week of enduring "Pete" in the dorm, I began to wonder if he intentionally meandered around in a state of mostly-naked on purpose. I was constantly yelling at him about it.

"Hey! Pevensie!" I stood up the seventh night he was there and thumped my fist on the thick plastic "glass" of the officer's station.

Two pairs of eyes looked my way – one pair a soulful brown, the other pair a mischievous green. I glanced irritably at "Ed", who was properly dressed in a white t-shirt and his issued gym shorts, and shook my head sharply to let him know that he was not the Pevensie I was looking for.

My eyes met "Pete" and so help me God, he stood arrogantly in front of the officer's station, halfway between the open-bay bathroom and the open-bay sleeping quarters, arms akimbo and blatantly bare-chested. I narrowed my brown eyes dangerously at him.

"Put your damn shirt on!" I shouted through the partition between us.

He flashed me a wide, toothy smile. In other circumstances, I was certain he'd wink at me, but he didn't seem like he wanted to cross that line tonight.

I did _not_ return his smile. In fact, I answered it with my deadliest scowl and kept my eyes quite firmly _above_ his neck. It was quite clear that he was 'flaunting the goods' as it were and I wasn't having any of it.

Although, so help me, some small, deviant, wanton caricature of myself, locked firmly in the back of my mind, practically _drooled_ over the display. "Pete Pevensie" was _gorgeous_.

_ To the point of being completely obnoxious_, I told myself as he sauntered off toward his bunk, in a manner that could only be described as _sexy_. _No, no he's not, Kelly, He's arrogant, anti-social, murderous, and unrepentant_, my better senses scolded my errant thoughts, and I scowled as I watched him pull his t-shirt over his head.

I'd read his rap sheet – "Pete" was a bad, bad boy, with two consecutive life sentences for killing a number of innocent people in a serial spree that had spanned the breadth of at least six states a year or so ago.

But, ugh. _Gorgeous_.

"He totally didn't need to turn around and face us while he put on his shirt," my nightly partner, Officer Harding, sighed.

There was a wistful, wispy note to her soft exhalation, though, and I glanced over at her, nonplussed. Officer Katherine Harding was older than me by at least 15 years, a mother of four grown boys, divorced for ages, and a steady, dependable matron of the dorm. To see her sighing over an inmate was…well…it hadn't ever happened before, that's for sure.

"He thinks he can push our buttons, because we're women," my tone was acidic.

My eyes narrowed at "Pete" who simply flashed us both a knowing smile as he flopped back on his bunk.

"Why don't they make nice, law abiding men like that?" Harding glanced over at me out of the corner of her eyes and smile danced along the edges of her lips.

"They do," I snorted. "Haven't you noticed? He could be Mr. Bowe's twin. Now, _there's_ a nice, law abiding man."

"Hmm, true," Harding finally smiled, as she often did. "But, he's kind of young for me."

"So's that inmate," I just blinked at her, my face completely deadpanned.

Harding rolled back in her chair and laughed – a deep, pleasant sound that apparently could be heard outside of our office, since several inmates glanced up to see what was so funny. That was sort of normal, though; Hardin was, routinely, the good cop to my bad cop. We worked well that way.

"Well, even if I _was _to be wooed by Mr. Bowe's football arms and cute butt, he works during the day shift and we work during the night," she added dramatically. "So, we're stuck with the felon for entertainment."

I just grunted, a rather unladylike noise. I didn't intentionally try to act or sound like a guy, but when a woman is surrounded by them 24/7…and when she'd grown up surrounded by them 24/7…it was hard not to be a tomboy.

"I'm going to stick Pevensie with a disciplinary report. Just wait," I crossed my arms over my ample chest and finally looked away from the offending inmate, who was now chatting with his brother. "I'd enjoy work a hell of a lot more if he took a four-week vacation to confinement."

"Aw, you'd take away all the fun," Harding laughed easily, her voice teasing. "You would deny me my nightly eye candy?"

I looked over at her, scandalized.

"Oh, don't be such a stick in the mud," Harding waved her hand dismissively, hazel eyes sparkling. "I'm as straight-laced as you. But, _damn_ girl, even dressed, that boy's body is _obscene_."

I sighed heavily, unable to argue with Harding's observations. Even in his white t-shirt, matters weren't helped much. Pevensie's broad shoulders and muscular chest filled out the thin cotton fabric so fully that it was practically molded to his biceps and pecs. Most of the time, when I glanced his way, I just wanted to smack my face into the top of my work desk. It just wasn't _right_.

Thankfully, I _did_ have other matters to occupy my time and thoughts, besides the raw and over-powering sexuality that was Inmate Pevensie. There were evil things moving in the dark around the compound, within the dorms and the murky shadows of the squat concrete buildings. A rash of inexplicable deaths had broken out – guards, one and all, their bodies found in pools of their own blood. They were all determined suicides – slashed wrists, gunshots to the head, and one disturbing case of what could only be called seppuku. There were two curious facts about the "suicides", however – one, all the guards were female. Two, each body had been found surrounded by a faint yellow dust that smelled heavily of rotten eggs.

I knew that the rational, post-Enlightenment human mind rejected the notion of things like demons and hellfire. But, I was fairly certain that a demon was precisely what was going bump in the night.

I wasn't a hunter – my father had been one, but that had all ended rather abruptly after I was born. My late husband, Jake, had been one as well, but that all came to end after 9-11, when he joined the military.

Dad had picked up a respectable life as a correctional officer, working his way up the food chain until he'd become the warden of his own institution – _this _institution, actually, the very one I called my own as well. It technically wasn't supposed to work that way – a warden and his family member working at the same prison. But, I'd been working here for five years and Dad had been assigned as warden to the same prison, after working at a number of other institutions for about fifteen years.

So, rare, but it happened. The two of us worked such vastly different shifts, anyway, so it didn't make too much of a stir with the higher ups (or anyone else, really; as far as you knew, not a single inmate knew you were the warden's daughter). I worked nights, Dad worked days; it kept a comfortable separation between the two of us and we were both okay with that.

Dad and I didn't see eye-to-eye very much these days. Dad wanted to bring in hunters to solve our problem on the compound; or, pick up his old weapons again and deal with it on his own. I fought his hare-brained ideas tooth and nail; so viciously, in fact, that just two days before, Mom had threatened to throw the two of you out of the house until we settled our differences.

I saw hunters as criminals – always had, although in the case of Jake, I'd clearly had a soft spot for them underneath it all. And Dad…well…Dad was still a rogue at heart, which Mom was quick to point out when I got huffy. I often wondered how he'd managed to scrub his record clean enough to work in law enforcement.

Jake had danced an equally thin line between the law and the dark side of society. He'd only just started hunting, as a young 20-something year old, when 9-11 happened. The Navy (of all things) had straightened him out after that. He'd done more than his fair share of time in the sandbox as a Seabee – a member of the Navy's infamous engineers and construction men – and as far as I knew, he hadn't ever gone a-hunting again after putting a ring on my finger. But, he'd been rough, a wild heart underneath that respectable uniform, that wedding ring, and that petty officer's rank. Despite myself, I often wondered if he had, in fact, died because of an IED attack, or because he'd been chasing after things better left alone.

I could have gone into hunting – Dad and Jake had both commented on my potential. Dad had even suggested within the last week that _I _could have taken a stab at hunting down our resident demon and exorcising it. I had…gifts, not least of which was flexibility and a quick hand to the draw. But, I'd never wanted to walk on that side of the law, having been influenced deeply by Mom's non-violent values. (How _that_ had ever worked between her and Dad, I'd never know. But, it had, for nearly 30 years.)

Being a Navy veteran myself (a medic, who had also seen combat) and a correctional officer, I was clearly not opposed to violence. However, Mom's values _had_ managed to instill a deep respect for the law, for order, and for discipline; three things that hunters most certainly lacked (at least, from _my_ view of things). My career choices since then had only cemented those values into the very core of my being.

But, Mom's views had had another lasting effect on me: I protected the innocent, at all costs. Dad's suggestion that he would allow me to prowl around in the dark after our unwelcome guest was becoming an increasingly tempting offer, despite my abhorrence of anything that even remotely smacked of "hunter".

What was prowling around the compound was infuriating me. I knew every last woman who had been killed. While not friends, per se, they'd been my coworkers. My backup. My fellow officers and sisters-in-arms. Normally, a guy like "Pete" wouldn't have bothered me, but his ability to irritate me was a sign of the times: I was edgy, angry, restless.

So help me, for the first time in my life, I wanted to _hunt_. But, instead, I reigned the impulse in. I stood my post dutifully, night after night, with Harding beside me and Pete Pevensie provoking me impishly with his deep green eyes.

Well, I reigned my impulse in until about a week and a half after the Pevensie brothers showed up. That's when Harding went to walk around the outside of the dorm on her nightly round and didn't come back. She broke the pattern, but that was little comfort. We found an ungodly amount of blood hours later, beneath the covered expanse of the canteen pavilion. We didn't find her body.

I completely lost my shit. This was my _partner_. I now had to look her sons in the eye – boys you knew well and watched over for the last six years – and tell them that law enforcement couldn't find their mother, couldn't explain the evidence of her spilled blood, couldn't hand them a culprit in cuffs. Harding's bloody disappearance hit our little community of officers _hard_; I wasn't the only one who felt her hand resting on top of the gun at her hip and her eyes roving over the men (guard and inmate alike) around her warily.

Something shifted in the Pevensie brothers, too. "Pete" didn't make subtle passes at me anymore; in fact, he was now rarely distracted from strangely intense conversations with his brother. I only observed this change for two nights – not long enough to get truly suspicious – before the word came down from Daddy Warden: all female officers were to stand down until further notice.

I was on shift the night that Dad's call came through. I was alone in the dorm, since no one had figured out who should replace Harding just yet. I was distracted, quietly seething, overwhelmed by having to do the work of two people on my own. So, I didn't notice that when "Pete" Pevensie came in for the night, he slid something between the heavy steel door and the lock, to keep it from completely closing behind him. I didn't notice either, when both brothers slipped between the shadows of the dorm and out the door. My back had been turned at the moment of their escape, my head down, my eyes narrowed at the yellow legal pad beside the phone, as I listened to the Colonel on the other end of the line.

My decision was made swiftly, then, as I set the phone back down. I wasn't leaving without at least _attempting_ to bait the demon out for a reckoning of his sins.

I radioed the nightly rover and asked him to take my spot for a few minutes while I took a break. Once that was set in place, I walked quietly from the officer's station to the front door and paused for just a moment to take a quick look over all of the sleeping, rustling bodies. My eyes lingered on the Pevensies' bunks; something looked…off about the position of the dim and blanketed forms, but I was on a mission and told myself that I'd investigate further when I got back.

I left, never noticing that the door's locking mechanism was still jammed.

I pulled out my long-handled maglite and started prowling along in the dark once my eyes had adjusted to the moonless night. I wanted to take a walk around and the humid, late summer air made sweat bead along the top of my brow. I justified my breach of protocol by telling myself that Dad had, after all, given me permission to take justice into my own knowing hands. Plus, I knew what I was looking for, in the darkness and the stillness – the other officers didn't.

I fingered the silver rosary around my neck, hidden underneath my tan uniform shirt.

* * *

><p>I don't remember quite what happened. One minute, I was walking around the familiar, night-time landscape of the prison. I would remember later that something hit me hard on the back of the head; it drove the air out of my lungs and forced my knees to the ground. I would remember a strange, pure, headache-inducing white light. I would remember a pair of wide green eyes and large, long-fingered hands against my cheeks.<p>

And then, I would remember nothing.

It would be a few days later before I would remember the dark-reddish insides of my eyelids and my fuzzy, cotton-textured tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, as I was jostled against the back of a leather car seat. It would be another week after that, before I would remember my father's voice, barely audible above the purr of a powerful engine.

"…You've got to…we've got no choice…that thing was after her...Yes, I _know_ what the Department will think...I refuse to see my baby girl in a grave…you've got to get her out of here, Dean…I'll deal with the Investigator…yes, I know this won't look good, Sam…aiding and abetting a prison escape…it doesn't matter...Bobby, you and John still _owe _me…"

* * *

><p>Once the guard, I became the guarded. At first, my captors were the Pevensie brothers…who I quickly found out were not who they said they were. I finally came to consciousness in a surprisingly warm and comfortable queen-sized bed in a place I didn't know, the two hovering over me like expectant midwives. I may or may not have freaked out a little bit, when they told me their names: Dean and Sam Winchester.<p>

I knew the name "Winchester". Dad had spoken of John Winchester many times – a good man, Dad had claimed. A good man, an even better hunter, who had died under mysterious circumstances. And every law enforcement official in the country knew of Dean Winchester, even if his younger brother managed in most cases to slide beneath the radar. I might not have known much about Sam, but I sure as hell knew that they didn't come much more bad-to-the-bone than Dean Winchester.

I tried several escape attempts, once the stitches in the back of my head were removed by a gruff old codger called "Bobby". I rather liked Bobby (there was something about his no-nonsense personality that reminded me quite a lot of my own father) and I couldn't quite figure out what he was doing with the likes of the Winchesters. I soon found out, however, when Bobby intercepted my last Houdini attempt, grabbed me by my ear, marched me to a couch he forced me to sit on, and loudly informed me that I was where I was for my own damn good and I didn't stop trying to escape, _"so help me God, I'mma gonna lock you in your own damn room, ya' idgit!"_

It was after that point that I realized that Bobby _was_ the father-figure of the Winchester equation and the unrivaled patriarch of the "Bunker" where I was being kept. I watched him carefully after that; he moved stiffly, as if he had arthritis, or some old hunting wound that pained him frequently, but I knew not to let that fool me. After hauling my sneaky little ass back into the Bunker and tossing me down on a couch, I had accepted the fact that Bobby was _not_ a force to reckon with. And after running into him at every damn turn after that point, I figured out quite quickly that Bobby had apparently appointed himself my grumbling guardian angel.

Of course, I didn't know any angels who wore grease-stained trucker caps, but whatever. I didn't think that _real_ angels would keep company with the Winchesters and if they did, they wouldn't look like they'd crawled out from under the Impala. That is, _if_ there were angels – Dad and I had argued that point endlessly and I was firmly convinced that they _didn't_ exist.

And, for the record, life in close proximity with the Winchesters was not much easier to bear than when it had been a carefully divided life with them in prison. In fact, it was rather worse. There was no threat of confinement to keep Dean from pushing my boundaries with endless enthusiasm. Apparently, he had been _genuinely_ attracted to me in prison, because he didn't stop pestering me, every chance he had.

I fact, I became rather paranoid of bending over (as an example) since every time that I did, I could practically _feel_ Dean undressing me with his gaze. The clothes that Sam had sheepishly returned with one day were mysteriously reduced to tank tops, short-shorts and the occasional extra-tight t-shirt. A furious interrogation of both brothers revealed nothing, however, and I was left to fume about in my skimpy clothing. Thankfully, bras in my size were most comfortable in the nicely padded, full-coverage variety, which was the only thing that kept my nipples (and subsequent rings) from proclaiming their presence to the world, every time a good late autumn gust chilled the concrete-and-stone Bunker to a passing impression of the sub-arctic.

I was quite rightfully convinced that if Dean Winchester ever found out to what extent that I was pierced and tattooed, I'd never be rid of him.

To be fair, however, it only took me about a month to figure out that Dean wasn't the only one panting in my wake. There was another set of eyes following you around the house – they were just a lot less _obvious_ about it. I picked up on Sam's interest, when I noticed that his eyes had a tendency to slip south during long conversations. However, it was because of those conversations that I graciously over-looked it. Sam was courteous, articulated, educated, and bookish – just what I liked best in the male species. Physically, he wasn't quite my type (the hair just didn't do it for me), but I could always make exceptions when the alternative was his brother's overbearing chauvinism. So, if Sam sneaked peeks, I didn't mind. At least he kept his hands to himself, which was more than I could say for Dean.

Then, as already established there was Bobby, but his watchful gaze could not be compared to Sam or Dean, for which I was quite glad. After Bobby settled his differences with me and once I became accustomed to the fact that he was more or less my constant keeper, we decided that we actually liked each other. Turns out, Bobby actually knew me – or, at least, _of _me – which explained, in a large part, the decision he had seemed to have made in watching over me. After a few casual conversations, I learned that he had kept in touch with my father over the years, having hunted with him back in the day. After that, it didn't take Bobby long to endear himself to me. In fact, after a month and a half of being locked up in the bunker, Bobby started taking Dean to task for being an unrelenting jerk.

Having an ally in my corner seemed to irritate Dean, which simply meant that he started being obnoxious only when Bobby wasn't around to see. It bears mentioning that Dean _never_ touched me in a way that could be considered (totally) inappropriate; he never backed me into a corner; he never tried to actively seduce me against my own wishes. But...he also didn't go out of his way to preserve the purity of my thoughts.

He was shirtless almost constantly; if not, then he was dressed in tight-fitting t-shirts. I hadn't quite decided if he meandered about so frequently covered in engine grease and/or the bloody grime of hunting, because there were so very few places I could go inside the Bunker _without_ crossing his path on the way to a shower, or because he went out of his way to make sure I always managed to run into him when he was sweaty, dirty, and hyper-masculine. I also couldn't decide if he ate _all_ food with such an almost-sexual intensity, or if he did that just for my personal benefit. The way he ate was especially distracting when he was working his way through any sort of pie; I was privately surprised that he didn't just bury his face in the whole pie pan…a thought which usually left my ears burning.

But, what else could I do? It'd been nearly seven years since Jake died and I hadn't been even remotely interested in any man since then. Now, though? I was being driven into an almost constant state of _heat_ – there wasn't any other word for it.

Dean Winchester knew it, too. And he knew _I _knew.

I decided quickly that I needed to find an outlet for my frustration. So, I settled on picking fights.

* * *

><p>"ENOUGH!" Bobby boomed, as he dove in between what little space there currently existed between Dean's chest and mine. "I'm tired of you two damn idgits fightin'!"<p>

The ring of Bobby's uncontested authority shut both of us up, but we still glared daggers at each other – me from around Bobby's shoulder and Dean from over Bobby's head. The elder hunter dug his heels in and pushed both of us roughly apart, firm fingers holding both of our shoulders in a vice-like grip.

"If you were both men, I'd let you fight it out. But since you're _not_," his keen brown eyes fixed me with a look that would have made my own father squirm.

Bobby took a deep, steadying breath before continuing. He turned his head back toward Dean.

"You – go crawl under the Impala, 'til you cool down."

The two had a silent staring contest, but Dean finally conceded with a discontent snarl. His boots stomped heavily across the floor as he stalked stiffly toward the door.

"And you," Bobby let go of me and let his hand fall to his side; his eyes were suddenly worried. "Is Dean bothering you?"

"No," I breathed deeply, trying to calm my anger down.

I both knew what Bobby meant and I was hell-bent on denying it. It was two months in this unwilling confinement and Dean had me thoroughly worked up. I wasn't about to admit that, though…to _anyone_.

"I'm stuck in this…this…damn _mansion_…I'm only allowed to stay on this floor…I'm bored…and I'm surrounded by_ men _24/7!" I spoke with my hands, agitated. "Even when Sam and Dean are gone, there's still _you_, hovering around and reminding me constantly that I'm being watched!"

I run my fingers through my loose, dirty-blond hair, and tried not to dissolve into hysterics.

"Why am I here, Bobby?" I finally looked up toward the ceiling.

I blinked my eyes rapidly and hoped he didn't hear the quiver in my voice. There was a long pause after my question; finally, Bobby sighed and it was a heavy sound against the silence.

"Because your dad said so, Kelly. And that's all we can tell you right now."

* * *

><p>I slowly started to realize, after that point, that resistance was futile. If Dad was involved in all of this…well...I was a daddy's girl. Always had been. Even if we butted heads, it was simply because we got more alike the older we got. If Dad had sent me into hiding with the Winchesters, then it was because something had gone very, very wrong that night. I dimly recalled the broken words I had heard before blacking out for good - "...We've got no choice…that thing was after her...Bobby, you and John still <em>owe <em>me…"

Dad was protecting me and it was probably the one chance he'd ever have to do so before he died. I had always been independent and headstrong – perhaps too much so. It took me a few days to admit to myself, but maybe it was time to follow someone else's lead. At least, for a while.

I decided to spend my time doing something else other than growling at Dean and pacing around my bedroom. I started keeping house, because living with three confirmed bachelors was _disgusting_. My borderline OCD kicked into overdrive; I let the boys do what they wanted with their weapons and their what-not, but I very quickly established that as long as I was stuck with them, this was _my _Bunker, as certainly as I'd impressed upon them in our first meeting that their dorm was _my_ dorm. They were merely...guests.

This had an unexpected result – a passive-aggressive struggle for dominance between Dean and me. Bobby seemed over the moon at the idea of a woman to looked after them; Sam was explicitly appreciative and consented to do "man chores" (I was shamelessly sexist when it came to such things) like taking out the trash and moving furniture. But, Dean? Dean began to do a passing impersonation of Charlie Brown's Pigpen.

Muddy (and sometimes _bloody_) boot prints on the kitchen floor. Unwashed dishes in the sink. Gun cleaning supplies scattered across the kitchen table. Hunting paraphernalia tossed hodge-podge around the common areas, most still filthy from use (this annoyed _everyone_ and thankfully, this particular demonstration of "eff you" stopped when Bobby had it out with Dean in manner that resulted in me breaking out band aids and antiseptic).

The most disturbing act of passive-aggression was walking into the kitchen or the common area (referred to in _normal _homes as the living room) and finding porn playing on the TV or Sam's laptop, completely unattended. I had laughed at first, because if Dean thought he was going to unsettle me with a little porn, then he was so very, very wrong. I'd spent six years in the Navy, mostly in the company of Marines or other male sailors. Porn was usually what those boys watched in place of the morning news. I had seen it all. Although, I did start to wonder if Dean thought there was anything at all sacred about sex. Also,_ hentai_. I drew the line at tentacle porn, but that seemed to be a particular favorite of his. Or, at least, that's the impression he left in his wake. I wondered frequently if I should worry about his nocturnal proclivities.

The one thing, though, that drove me over the edge of reason was quite minor in comparison to the porn. In comparison to everything, really. But, dirty clothes – nothing made me see bright and furious red faster than dirty clothes strewn carelessly across the house. Bloody shirts on the back of the couch. Grease-stained undershirts on the kitchen table. So-help-me-Lord-Almighty, mud-crusted pants in the middle of the bedroom hallway.

I started to suspect that he was leaving his filthy socks all over the place as a silent protest to my "girly smelly stuff" (otherwise known as _scented candles_ and _plug-in air fresheners_). It seemed a moot point to even try and explain to Dean that the presence of "tooty-fruity crap" only increased in direct correlation to the amount of discarded socks I pulled out from between the couch cushions.

After a while, Dean started getting bold, too. I soon had an intimate – and unwilling – knowledge of what he preferred in underwear: boxer briefs. Tight, butt-hugging boxer briefs. I frequently found those lying defiantly _outside _the bathroom door, in the penultimate display of passive-aggressive dominance.

I finally decided that maybe it was time to pee on the fire hydrant – metaphorically speaking, that is.

I had grown up with a veritable menagerie, but my favorite animals were cats, dogs, and rabbits. Rabbits (even fixed ones) humped other animals (and their owner's legs, on occasion) as a way to mark their territory and establish dominance. Alpha dogs usually ate and drank out of the omega's bowls. Cats…well…cats were inherently dominant and all of damn creation knew it. They didn't have to do much to assert their proper place on the top of the food chain – in my experience, most cats succeeded in making their point by simply getting in my face (usually butt-first) any time I had something in my lap other than _them_.

I decided it was time to make Dean aware of the proper order of things. I started off sneaky, collecting his discarded clothes and stashing them in a laundry basket at the foot of my bed. I was surprised (much to my genuine concern) that it took about a week for Dean to even _notice_.

"Where are all my damn clothes?" he demanded loudly one evening.

He stood in the kitchen doorway defiantly, in much the same manner that he had done that last night in the dorm. Except this time, he only wore those embarrassingly tight boxer briefs and_ nothing_ else. His hair was damp and dark from the shower; his shoulders and chest still shone with moisture under the yellow kitchen light. I was sitting at the table playing poker with Bobby and Sam, a cozy collection of half-empty beer bottles between us. All movement froze when Dean appeared so abruptly; I don't think any of us quite knew how to react at first. I know I didn't – I was too busy trying not to stare at the trickle of water rolling down between Dean's smooth pecs, down toward the light smattering of hair that drew a line straight toward damnation.

"Don't nobody know where your damn clothes are, Dean!" Bobby finally stirred to life and, to my embarrassment, I jumped at the suddenness of his protest. "But for the love of God, go find some!"

Dean left after that, but not before fixing me with a knowing, smoldering eye. I tried not to gulp, tried not to be swayed by the magnificent view that had been bared to me in almost all its glory. I definitely tried not to think about…well…that damn _bulge _between his thick legs. I told myself soundly that it was the _beer _that had made me feel all flushed and flustered. I also decided that maybe it was time to proceed to Step Two.

In retrospect, I conceded that maybe Step Two hadn't been such a good idea. It definitely didn't reap the results I was looking for – if anything, the opposite.

Step Two was washing that collection of laundry at the foot of my bed, folding it all up nice and neat – and then putting it _back _in the laundry basket on the floor. With the exception of three things – a white t-shirt, a checkered green-and-blue flannel over-shirt, and a pair of black boxer briefs.

Those, I _wore_. It was my human equivalent to eating out of Dean's metaphorical bowl (I stoutly refused to make any metaphorical comparisons to humping his leg or invading his lap). The only way I could possibly be _bolder _was if I went digging through the fridge and ate the entirety of his cherry pie. I put Dean's clothes on – no bra beneath the white t-shirt, for the record – and marched as defiantly as I could in bare feet down the hallway, past the bedroom doors, down the stairs, and straight into the kitchen.

Where Dean was. Standing with Sam at the stainless steel island in the middle of the kitchen. Eating his damn pie.

I didn't even need to look – I could literally_ feel_ those green eyes lock onto me like radar and track my progress across the kitchen floor. I didn't look at him – not directly, anyway – but out of the corner of my eye, as I passed Sam on my way to the fridge, I caught Dean staring intensely at my barely dressed form. I paid the brothers no heed, as bold as I pleased, as I opened the refrigerator door. My hands, however, _did _shake, ever so slightly, and they went straight for the orange juice, instead of the pitcher of cold water. As if on automatic, I opened the freezer next and pulled out a bottle of vodka. It was _definitely _time for a screwdriver. A screwdriver that had just enough orange juice for _color_.

I kept my back to them while I mixed my drink and put everything away, neatly in their respective places. I turned briskly, projecting the false impression that I was _totally in control _(of myself, at least), and leaned casually against the kitchen counter for a few minutes while I enjoyed my deceptively stiff drink.

Dean was a lot more calculated with that pie, now, his usual hedonistic abandonment tightly reigned. Fork scooped up pie (which, given the manner Dean was wont to cut his slices, was mostly a gooey mess of cherry filling and helplessly adrift bits of crust), fork drifted casually up to decadently full lips. Decadently full lips parted, showing just the top edge of straight, white teeth, and the tip of a rather broad tongue. Fork entered mouth, lips closed over fork with intentional firmness, fork slid slowly, smoothly between those pouty, cherry-stained lips. Fork lowered toward the plate and Dean leaned back, jaw working slowly as if to purposefully accentuate the movement of his muscles. He rested his weight on one hip, against the edge of the island, and turned slightly to face me. Once our eyes met across the distance, he made a guttural moan of satisfaction that could only be described as _obscene_.

_Only _Dean Winchester could recreate a porn scene with nothing more than a fork and a bit of cherry pie.

I decided that _now _was precisely the time to beat a hasty retreat back to my room – where I would promptly _lock the damn door._ Which, when I was honest with myself, was more for _his_ benefit, than mine. I wasn't quite sure that I wouldn't try to press my luck after our mutual game of bait-and-snare. And I was _damn_ sure Dean wouldn't try to stop me if I did.

I moved my legs resolutely, one foot in front of the other, calling on all of my years of law enforcement and military training. I kept my back straight, my head held high, my gaze seemingly unaffected to Dean's well-played response to me showing up in his clothes. I did _not _try to squeeze my legs together, I did _not _feel the heat and moisture unfurling in dangerous, sensuous coils in the bottom of my stomach. I did _not _even _think _about crawling into Dean's lap right then and there and letting him eat that pie right off my…

Fingers. Fingers were safe.

Safer than interpreting the thoughts smoldering in those green eyes, in any event. I walked right on by Sam again – acutely aware of how Dean's ridiculously over-large shirt shifted with each step and revealed in the cold kitchen air all too clearly my unrestricted chest. I pretended to ignore the way his eyes snapped _immediately _to soak in the sight of pert flesh and metal ring pressing against the white t-shirt stretched across my breasts.

Instead, I waved brightly at Sam and wished him goodnight as I walked resolutely back the way I'd come. I couldn't help but notice that Sam didn't meet my eyes, as his gaze was firmly anchored to my chest as well. Oh, my.

I made it to the darkness and cool of the hallway between the kitchen and the dining room, and fought the urge to bolt straight up the stairs and into my room. I walked steadily – keeping a sharp ear out for the sound of heavy boot steps behind me. The boys, however, seemed rooted to the spot. Suddenly, I couldn't quite tell if I was disappointed or relieved by Dean's lack of pursuit.

I _did_ realize, though, as I closed my bedroom door behind me and twisted the lock into place, that I may have started something I couldn't (and weren't sure that I wanted to) stop. I knew what Dean had been thinking when he saw me in his clothes – he hadn't seen a strong, independent woman thumbing her nose at his authority. No…his eyes had clearly communicated to me what he'd been thinking and it was all summed up in one prehistoric word:

MINE.


	2. Ain't No Rest For the Wicked

"_You know there ain't no rest for the wicked;  
>Money don't grow on trees.<br>We got bills to pay,  
>We got mouths to feed,<br>And ain't nothing in this world for free.  
>No we can't slow down,<br>We can't hold back,  
>Though you know we wish we could.<br>No there ain't no rest for the wicked,  
>Until we close our eyes for good ."<em>

"**Ain't No Rest For the Wicked"**

**Cage the Elephant**

* * *

><p>I woke up violently, startled by a loud crash against my wooden bedroom door. Loud noises didn't usually bother me anymore, but hearing something so thunderous from the comfortable oblivion of a dead sleep usually pitched me face-first into cacophonous flashbacks of blood, sand, fire, and smoke. I bolted upright with a shout; trained instinct demanded that I pause for half a second and focus, before pulling the trigger of the Taurus revolver I now held in my hands. That half-second was about the only thing that kept me from putting bullets through my door at about chest-height.<p>

I blinked rapidly as the door rattled again – this time, though, the knock was a lot less aggressive. I shuddered, realizing what I'd just been about to do, and slowly switched the safety back on before sliding the gun back beneath my pillow. My heart pounded from the adrenaline that had suddenly flooded my system and after a third knock, I realized what was going on.

I was not in Iraq. I was not in Afghanistan. I was not in the dark yard of the prison. I was not being attacked.

Someone was just knocking on my bedroom door.

"What the hell?" I yelled in place of a more…customary…greeting, as I slowly untangled my shaking legs from my blue cotton sheets.

"Good morning to you, too, Sunshine!" Dean's deep voice shot back through the door.

"Ugh," I muttered under my breath as I wiped the back of my right hand across my sleep-crusted eyes.

Just how I wanted to be seen, first thing in the morning: shaken and sweating from a flashback, my hair doing its daily impersonation of Medusa, my temper thinned considerably from my restless sleep. I was never a morning person at the best of times…and sleeping the last couple months had become increasingly harder, since my meds had not made the over-night transition with me from prison guard to prisoner.

"C'mon, open the door," there was a thump on the door from closer toward the floor, as Dean knocked the wood with the toe of his boots; his voice now carried a sort of plaintive whine that was entirely too adorable.

I face-palmed myself, in the dark of my room, with the door closed, where no one could ever see me. This man was going to be the death of me – that or Stockholm Syndrome, of which I was pretty sure that I was starting to develop a healthy case of, if I thought Dean Winchester was "adorable".

I sighed heavily and leaned over across my bed long enough to fumble for the switch of my bedside lamp. I groaned roughly as the light made me wince – it wasn't a strong light by any means, but it took a second for my eyes to adjust. It was a morning ritual as old as I'd been alive.

Almost zombie-like, I shuffled for the door, completely forgetting that I was still dressed in Dean's clothes. It didn't take long for me to blush, though, when I saw his eyes drop lower than my mouth.

Of course, I might have started blushing from the intimate proximity of our bodies. Dean had one thick, muscled arm leaning above his head against the outside door frame, one foot casually crossed over the other in a display of cool, collected sex appeal. He'd leaned in when I opened the door and, startled by his unexpected invasion of my (ridiculously large) personal bubble, I leaned back. This only succeeded in pushing my breasts harder against the fabric of his white t-shirt.

Dean's overall body mass was significantly larger than mine, so anything of his was bound to hang loose on me (except for his boxers – we had apparently the same waist size and if I were more concerned with such, I might have been embarrassed by that fact). But, my chest was large enough that it still stretched out the top of his t-shirt – much like it did across his chest. There was no hiding the fact that I had a pair of silver hoops threaded through my nipples, or the fact that they were just large enough to entice a tongue to curl around the metal curves and tug.

The look on Dean's face was one of pure hunger. Honestly, he looked at my chest about the same way I'd seen him eyeing his favorite meal, before he started stuffing his face with more enthusiasm than I thought was possible for a grown man. An image flashed through my mind – Dean, face-first and open-mouthed between my breasts, laving them with long, hot strokes of his tongue. Dean, his lips wrapping around my nipples and sucking hard enough to leave a hickey. Dean, his teeth clasping a nipple ring tightly as he pulled his head back, mingling pleasure and just the briefest hint of pain.

I couldn't help shifting uncomfortably at my uninvited thoughts. And no, I was not so lucky as to escape Dean's perceptive gaze, as the tops of my thighs rubbed briefly against each other, squeezing the apex of his boxers tightly together. It was just a second, but it was enough to make him lean a little further in and to make me reach for the wall, so I could steady myself as I fought the urge to lean back even further.

And so help me – the world narrowed down sharply to just the two of us and the empty, aching space between the supple curves of my chest and the hard planes of his. I licked my lips nervously and his gaze turned darker, his smile sharper, as he tugged a corner of his lower lip between his teeth.

Really. This was ridiculous. No man – not even my late husband – had ever made me wet by doing nothing more than flashing a roguish line of perfectly white teeth, flexing ever so subtly the muscles of his jaw, and sucking his lip between teeth and tongue.

God.

So.

Help.

Me.

I wanted _my_ lower lip to be between his teeth and tongue. And that realization made me want to bolt for the nearest psychiatric ward.

Because only a deep, disturbing case of Stockholm Syndrome could explain my falling in lust with a man who had a rap sheet ten pages long.

My nose flared as I tried to muster up even the slightest smidgen of indignation – I could always rely on my old buddy Anger to help me cope with life's more complicated emotional moments. But, as I breathed in to steel myself for a sharp retort to cut (dear GOD!) the tension between us, I smelled him.

Soap, Old Spice deodorant...and was he trying to make me loose my mind? (My pants at least, I conceded for a half-second of cogent thought). He was wearing my favorite men's cologne – the one that stirred that wanton, scarlet-wearing woman deep within me, each time I caught a whiff. Of course Dean-fucking-Winchester would wear my favorite cologne.

I didn't realize that I'd leaned in toward him, lured by the sensuous, subtle notes of his scent.

Fuck, I could eat him.

"See something you want?"

It took me a long moment to realize that he'd said anything. His voice was the sound of raw Irish whiskey and fragrant Earl Grey, sweetened with just a hint of dark wildflower honey.

Ugh. WHY?

My thighs rubbed together, slaves to my baser instincts and desires. And oh, Dean knew I knew that he'd seen that. It would be so damn fucking easy to reach out and run my hands across one of his bare arms. He had a white wife-beater on – one that had seen better days, as I could see peaks of smooth, tanned, freckled skin, especially around his abs – and a pair of jeans that hung a little low on his hips. His under-shirt was tight, so I could see the sharp ridges of his hips that lead my traitorous eyes to the juncture between them.

And, fuck fuck fuck FUCK.

He was so fucking hard, that it was almost embarrassing to see the evidence of it. I felt my cheeks start to burn, but that same liquid little Id that was pooling between my legs – and drenching his boxer briefs – was taking control of both my Ego and Super-Ego. I was momentarily fascinated by the obvious length and width of him.

Just...damn. I couldn't help the wicked little realization that I'd never had anyone that...well-endowed...before.

Ugh. That thought did bad things between my legs.

Fuck.

"I'll say again," I bit my lip to keep from yelling, but couldn't quite suppress a little squeak as I jumped from the warmth breath that suddenly brushed the shell of my right ear.

I snapped my head to the side, only to be instantly captured by a pair of green-and-amber-flecked eyes. My breath hitched as I bumped noses with Dean and then realized that his lips were close enough to brush against mine as he spoke.

"See something you want, sweetheart?"

I had...nothing. Absolutely nothing, except a stomach that was starting ache from the desire that was building up and a wordless whimper that whispered against his lips.

I could smell his breath – minty and sweet from toothpaste. When he spoke, his lips had brushed mine and I didn't even realize that I'd licked my lips, until I tasted a faint memory of spearmint against my tongue.

I wanted to just wrap my arms around that delicious neck of his and pull him through the doorway, so I could explore the taste of that spearmint a little more fully. But...fear held me back.

Fear had a way of always holding me back. Ever since Jake had died and the night terrors had destroyed what remained of my military career. Fear was what made me so damn good at being a correctional officer – I was expected to keep the world around me at a cold and tightly controlled distance. That had been my daily life for years, now, and it had wrapped me up in a false sense of security, control, stability, and comfort.

Dean Winchester was the direct antithesis to any of that. And I knew myself far, far too well. If I took the kiss that he was so obviously offering...I'd never be able to hold on to the illusion that my life could somehow be normal. Dean represented everything I feared, everything that made me angry, everything that made me scream into the night and reach for my pills.

Dean represented the dark side of a world that sang through my blood. I had fought my whole life to control that wild magic, to deny my rich Celtic blood, to ignore the innocents that cried out from the shadows for my steady, cold iron pistol and purity of purpose.

If I kissed those lips, Dean Winchester would drag me into his world. And his world was made for what had always seethed beneath my badge, what I had once controlled so nobly beneath steady, healing hands. Dean's world would surely reawaken what I had lost in the searing Hell of the Middle East, when I had tried to pour too much of my power and soul into the half-dead body of a little girl. I had only succeeded in destroying us both when I'd done that, and as a result, I'd had nothing to give in order to save Jake when they'd rushed him into my med tent three days later. He'd died in my arms and my heart along with him.

And so help me, I couldn't plunge my hands so willingly into blood, and darkness, and war again. I had been broken by trying to use my connection to that world to even the odds for Good. I had learned that nothing – no power, no person, no creed, or noble intention – could withstand the inevitable corrosion of Dean's midnight world.

All good things died there. And I wouldn't do that to myself again. Never again.

So, I tore my eyes away from him and stared at the floor beneath my bare feet as I took an agonizing step back. I knew he'd read that simple movement for what it was and it was kinder, perhaps, than shooting him down entirely.

His reaction to that, though, wasn't what I expected. I took one more step back, until there was enough space between the two of us to inhale without feeling the other's exhale. I lifted my eyes at that point and was startled to see him still leaning in through the doorway, having not moved a muscle. That mischievous smile was gone, though, and there was an uncharacteristic sobriety to his expression and to his eyes.

"You've only got to tell me 'no'," his voice was back to that pussy-melting rumble, but his tone was sincere.

I blinked, uncertain what to make of that dichotomy and even more uncertain about how I should respond to his words.

"But, for what it's worth," his words were slow, intentional, and our gazes locked together; I couldn't look away even if I had wanted and I wasn't even sure that I could breath on my own in that moment. "I don't think you want me to stop."

Beneath the fear, the doubt, the brokenness, the darkness in my mind...I felt the light and hope within me stir. I felt my power unfold, warm with a certainty that the rest of me wasn't sure I wanted to accept.

No. No I didn't want this to stop. And that...more than anything else, more any other reason my demons could dredge up as subterfuge...was why I just couldn't kiss Dean Winchester. Because with a man like him, there was only conclusion to the fairy tale glamour. And I knew myself, knew the woman I had always been.

I played the Long Game. For keeps. And there was no keeping Dean. Of that, I was quite convinced. Life hadn't ever given me any reason to think anything else of a man like him.

But, still...but still. That warmth within my chest, that warmth that was so much stronger and steadier than the hormone-influenced one between my legs, very quietly told me that I had better think twice about telling Dean Winchester "no".

_You had better mean it when you say it, girlfriend,_ I heard that almost-forgotten little voice whisper so delicately over the roar of my fears. _Because you may well regret it if you do._

My face had always been far too expressive – I snapped back to reality when I saw a slow, sexy smile spread across Dean's handsome face. Surely, he hadn't read my thoughts, but he'd seen my hesitation. And a smart man like him could figure out the rest from there.

There was a long, deep silence between us and there was much that was exchanged wordlessly in the stillness. His gaze crinkled at the corners in a knowing smile and I was helpless to resist it. I could only stand there and watch his thoughts meander saucily through his eyes.

The message was the same as it had been last night – MINE.

But, there was another promise, one that he actually voiced out loud.

"I can be patient, Kelly."

I made a slight exhalation as I prematurely interpreted his intentions. But, he cut me short with a soft click of his tongue and another promise spoken so softly, so intently, that I would wonder later if I had imagined it.

"But, don't think that doesn't mean I won't be huntin' ya'."

And, oh. I had no idea how devastating he could be when making good on those words. I thought I did. But, no, I had no fucking clue. And he proved that just fifteen minutes later.

* * *

><p>"DEAN!" Sam's voice yelled down the hallway.<p>

This seemed to throw a nice dose of ice cold water on us both and Dean finally moved out from the middle of the doorway, to yell back toward the kitchen.

"I'm comin'!"

"What's taking you so long?"

"Gettin' my damn clothes back!"

"Oh, God," Sam's voice very clearly conveyed his assumptions on how, precisely, he thought his brother was achieving that goal.

I blushed, inexplicably embarrassed by the thought that Sam thought his brother was smooching his way into my...his...underwear.

God, that sounded so fucking weird.

I shook my head slightly, as if to clear the tangling thoughts in my mind, and caught Dean staring at me expectantly, his arms now crossed over his chest.

My traitorous eyes couldn't help but linger on the enormous bulge of his biceps as he stood like that.

Ugh. I focused on his mouth at first, then realized that was a big mistake, and finally settled on his eyes, frowning slightly at the effort it took to keep my mind from traveling south of his damn waist.

"I know you've got my clothes," he smirked impishly, his eyes traveling sarcastically up and down my disheveled form. "Since you're wearing some of them."

"Um...yeah...uh..." I just couldn't stop the drivel that spilled nervously into the air between us.

FUCK. Smooth, girlfriend. SMOOTH.

Flustered – and suddenly, irrationally angry at the thought of Dean seeing me loose my cool – I turned sharply on my heel and marched stiffly toward the far corner of my bed. I stomped my bare feet a little more loudly than was strictly necessary and huffed indignantly as I stopped at the edge of my bed. I stared at the treacherous laundry basket for a moment. I KNEW he was going to going to be imagining my ass out of his boxers the instant I bent over.

So, I did what I'd learned to do in prison. I stepped smoothly to an angle, so that I wouldn't give him a clear shot of either tits or ass, and swiftly bent over to grab the handles of my white plastic basket. My hair fell forward, too, and I took the opportunity to glance through my lashes and my locks, to make sure he that was staying still.

What I saw nearly made me drop the laundry basket. Dean's large palm had covered the bulge in his jeans; he shifted in the typical movements of a man who was trying to rearrange himself in an effort to relieve the...pressure. But, I'd worked in Corrections long enough to notice the subtle movements of a man's hand – Dean was also palming himself through his jeans. His hand jerked up, as if he realized what he was doing, and the whole thing only took a minute, if that. But, his fingers had dragged up along the length of that bulge as he very reluctantly obeyed common social sensibilities.

I knew I wasn't getting the image of his palm and fingers brushing against his own cock – covered or not – out of my head any time soon.

Just...FUCK. I was getting tired of thinking that single thought over and over again. But...FUCK!...there wasn't any other word to fully embody the tension that stretched taunt between us. There just...wasn't.

I practically threw the laundry basket at him in an attempt to get him gone. I also tried to break the tension with the first and only coherent thought I could articulate in any manner approximating human speech.

"Why do you want your clothes back so damn early in the morning?"

My digital alarm clock had read 5:05 when I'd finally gotten out of bed to answer the door. Usually I was the early bird, not that I minded – it was rather amusing to watch Sam and Dean drag themselves out of their lairs, stumbling about for coffee and toast at 9:00 or 10:00 in the morning.

"Gotta go," Dean answered simply as he reached out for the basket.

He gripped the basket firmly and I forced myself not to look down when I felt warm, supple skin brush against mine. His fingers pressed up against mine as I transferred the basket handles to him and the feeling of his skin was...not electric as I would have thought. But warm, like flannel and home and freshly baked apple pie.

I didn't look him in the eye, not trusting myself to do so after touching – even so briefly – something that the dark hole of my heart had been silently longing for ever since Jake had died. I stared at Dean's clothes instead, folded so neatly in the basket between our bodies.

"What do you mean?" I frowned, even though the unexpected drop in my stomach told me that I already knew what the answer would be.

"Got a call," Dean stepped firmly away, his skin no longer lingering against my aching fingers. "Going hunting," his voice turned teasing, as if to snap me out of the sudden, irrational fear that gripped me at the thought of Dean being in danger's way again – a fear I would sooner die than admit. "Kinda' need clothes for that."

I finally risked a quick glance up at him. There was something complex and insufferably intriguing behind the twinkle in his emerald eyes.

"You can keep what you've got," his chin jerked playfully toward my chest – nipples still puckered, proud, and perky. "You look good in my clothes."

* * *

><p>I followed Dean, feeling strangely forlorn, as he thumped back down to the kitchen, carrying the laundry basket like a prize. He dropped it carelessly on top of the stainless steel island counter, right next to the open duffle bag that sat on the floor, propped up against the islands' sturdy legs.<p>

"'Bout time," Sam didn't look over his shoulder, as he busied himself in front of the coffee maker. "Cian sounded pretty freakin' rattled."

My blood turned to ice and my whole body turned to stone at the mention of my father's name. Dean noticed and his eyes never strayed from mine; his gaze was heavy beneath his eyelashes, as he watched me. His face was turned down toward the laundry basket, his chin tucked in toward his chest, but he kept watch of my emotions with unwavering intensity.

"Sam..." Dean said once, his brother's name laced with unmistakable warning.

Sam, so tightly tuned to his brother's moods and tones, immediately turned around, holding a traveling coffee mug in one hand and a spoon in the other. He saw me immediately and something like horror sprinted across his face.

My tongue was suddenly stuck to the roof of my barren mouth. Words failed, but my mind was screaming – _why is Dad scared! Why is he calling you? WHY NOT ME?_

A rough, scarred hand fell gently on my shoulder. I jumped, spinning around and grabbing that thick wrist behind me before I could register that it belonged to Bobby. Thankfully, I hadn't started twisting his arm down toward the floor, before his craggy, bearded, familiar face registered through the instincts of my PTSD.

"Easy, Sarge," he rumbled softly, using the shortened version of my rank to ground me back to reality.

I let go of his wrist immediately, my palms sweaty.

"It's best you don't ask," he said kindly, but firmly.

I knew the look in his eye – it said "don't you dare" and it was too much like Dad's look for me to ignore. For once, I nodded meekly – mutely – and swallowed back real tears that turned the corners of my eyes hot and scratchy.

Bobby reached out again and put both of his hands on my shoulder; he bent his head forward until the bill of his ole' trucker hat was touching the top of my forehead. He breathed in deeply, not saying a word, and I instinctively knew what he was doing.

He was letting me get my breath, reminding me to ground and center, giving me the brief opportunity to spare myself the indignity of letting the Winchesters see me cry. The two of us stood like that for a good three or four minutes, my eyes closed like Bobby's, as I allowed him to silently help me seal the cracks within my defenses. There was a fair bit of rustling and movement behind us, but I didn't pay it any mind until I finally opened my eyes again, met Bobby's gaze, and nodded slowly.

He nodded back and let go of my shoulders. I slowly turned around, my face finally cooling from the heat of my emotions, and I schooled my features into the poker face mask that I'd learned to wear as a medic.

Sam was walking past us toward the door, practically saddled with two duffel bags, a shotgun, and what looked like a bag of dry, packaged goods. Bobby had started moving as soon as I'd collected myself and had turned around to face Dean again. Before I could even think of what to say, I found myself abruptly left alone in the kitchen with a very intense-looking Winchester.

I finally unstuck my tongue and the words finally came pouring out. I took several instinctive steps toward Dean, my right hand unwittingly reaching out to him, as if imploring him to stay.

"Cian? Did Sam mean my dad?"

I was so intent on releasing the anxiety and abject fear that had been building up inside of me, that I was completely unprepared for Dean's next move. He stepped firmly toward me and my mind lied, telling me that he'd stop after a step or two. But he kept coming toward me – rapidly, his long strides covering more space more quickly than mine ever could – until suddenly my arms were held firmly between thick, strong fingers. I was pulled off of my feet far too swiftly for my befuddled mind to react and I continued to babble as my body was firmly pressed into broad, solid muscle.

"Why is my dad calling you? What's -"

I didn't get to go any further. Steady, aggressive, dominant masculine warmth captured my open mouth and before I could close my lips, a thick, rough, and deliciously dexterous mouth was tangling against mine.

Fuck.

My knees – those traitorous bastards – gave way and Dean kept moving his body, his tongue, his lips. I was drowning in the taste of him, sharp and crisp, spearmint and mouthwash still lingering in the grooves of his tongue. There was another taste there, too, rubbing itself, all hot and slick inside of my mouth – it was a deep taste, like smoke and good beer, and utterly, undeniably Dean.

_Fuck, woman,_ I thought, as Dean swallowed my breathless, desperate moan.

I couldn't help that moan, couldn't help opening myself up and drinking in the raw sexuality that his body all but poured into me. My lower back connected sharply with the edge of the island, but for some reason I didn't care. Dean's unshaven jaw rubbed roughly against my skin and I knew I'd have whisker burn for a good day or so.

I _still_ didn't care.

He still held my arms firmly at my side, so I couldn't do something stupid like reach up and weave my greedy, sex-starved fingers into the short spikes of his dirty blond-brown hair. So I couldn't be so foolish as to pull him closer to me, so I could mold my whole body against his and melt into the burning heat of his burly chest, thighs, arms.

My eyes were now squeezed shut, completely overwhelmed by the intensity of touch, taste, smell, and sound. But, I'd seen him watching me from beneath almost-completely lowered lashes before my own had fluttered shut. I had a feeling he was still watching me, ever so discreetly, to gauge my reactions and to adjust accordingly – the thought made me want to pull up his wife-beater and crawl underneath it. In that moment, I'd have crawled into his skin, if I could.

He ground his hips s-l-o-w-l-y into mine and what. The. Fuck.

I spun apart. The rough fabric of his jeans, the firmness of his thick ridge beneath, the fucking hot slide of his boxer briefs against my wet, swollen clit and well-placed piercing broke me open beneath him.

He swallowed his name as I shamelessly, wantonly screamed it, my body bowing hard against him. The force of my orgasm was so fucking primal that my shoulders and head actually hit the top of the counter behind us not just once, but three times. He kept grinding himself against me and I kept splintering apart into bright, ragged shards of exquisite pleasure. And the entire time, his tongue stroked mine firmly, in a blatant imitation of sex; his mouth slid and slipped across mine, my lips kept falling between his and being marked quite thoroughly by the blunt ridges of his teeth.

I finally stopped coming and my head swam from the force of my pleasure; my body had turned completely boneless, too, and I couldn't even think about putting up a fight as he pulled me off of the island and tightly against his chest. My lips reluctantly let go of his, as he shoved his nose against my cheek.

I panted heavily, all pretense of control completely compromised, as he nuzzled his way into the groove between my neck and ear. I simply had no resistance to offer, as he wrapped his fucking amazing arms around my slighter body and held me so tightly against him that I knew he could feel my nipple piercings as certainly as I could feel his cock.

"Good girl," his whiskey-honey-voice soothed the inside of my ear as his lips ghosted softly around the curve of it. "You're fucking hot when you come."

I moaned – at this point, there was no salvation for the wicked. The slumbering power within me – and the sensuality that came with it – had taken over my body. For the first time in years, I was completely naked, laid bare to another person. And my body was humming with too much sex and desire for me to even care.

So, I could do nothing but moan Dean's name again, the sound a ragged, broken plea against the rough scruff of his chin, as he whispered slowly, softly, into my hair:

"Don't come again until I get back home."


	3. One Way Or Another

"_One way or another I'm gonna find ya;  
>I'm gonna getcha getcha getcha getcha!<br>One way or another I'm gonna win ya;  
>I'm gonna getcha getcha getcha getcha!<br>One way or another I'm gonna see ya;  
>I'm gonna meetcha meetcha meetcha meetcha!<br>One day, maybe next week,  
>I'm gonna meetcha, I'm gonna meetcha, I'll meetcha!<br>I will drive past your house,  
>And if the lights are all down,<br>I'll see who's around."_

"**One Way Or Another"**

**Blondie**

* * *

><p>A few hours later, I would finally remember two very important details:<p>

One, Dean had whispered a surprised "Oh, fuck" against my tongue when I'd so violently shattered apart between his hands. He had not meant to take me over that edge – my body had simply responded so deeply to his that its betrayal of my closely guarded defenses had been inevitable.

He had also, utterly and completely, distracted me from asking further questions about Dad. By the time my thoughts had finally gathered themselves enough to recall that itty, bitty detail, Dean and his Impala were long gone.

_Cheating bastard, _I thought uncharitably, as I paced restlessly around the kitchen, through the common room, and back through the kitchen again.

There was no telling how long the boys would be gone. They'd been on two hunts since I'd so unwillingly joined them at the Bunker, but both absences had been brief, no more than a week or two. Something in my gut, though, told me that this hunt would be longer. Matters involving Dad always tended to be drawn out.

Not to mention, Bobby broke the pattern and went with them. There was no explanation given for his unusual absence – as I had understood it, he usually stayed behind and worked on research for the boys. His days "in the field" were limited, but, apparently, not as all-together-over as I had apparently assumed. Realizing that I had been left so thoroughly alone in the Bunker provided me with the space to remember a third minor detail – Bobby had been there the night I had been attacked. I could finally remember Dad's voice, as I had lain incapacitated in the back seat of the Impala - "..._Bobby, you and John _still_ owe me_!"

Things just got curioser and curioser.

Despite my curiosity over Bobby's absence, anxiety still flooded my nervous system and I found that I simply couldn't stay still. I couldn't focus, either, as my mind was racing quickly through a virtual documentary of worst-case scenarios. Had something happened at the prison? Was Dad being implicated in your disappearance? Was he hurt? Was Mom okay? What were the boys getting themselves into? Would they come back? What if I was stuck here…indefinitely?

I'd heard Dean and Sam talking; even quietly, their voices had carried through the vast architecture of the Bunker. I knew some of the things that they'd been through – like Hell and Purgatory, Michael and Lucifer, insanity and torture. They'd both ventured into some of the darkest reaches of creation – it would take next to nothing, just a simple twist of fate, to land them in such places again.

And meanwhile, I'd be here, wearing a trail through the floorboards.

After just 24 hours alone, I was inexplicably _bored;_ there was only so much cleaning I could accomplish with just my own little self rattling about the place. The only computer in the place was Sam's (so that was gone) and even the TV was a lost cause, since neither of the boys used Hulu or Netflix. I deeply considered trying to connect to my Amazon Prime account through Dean's old, second-hand XBox, but decided against it, since the powers that be would most certainly be monitoring such personal accounts for activity.

After about half a week, I decided that I had exactly two options: make a run for it, or try to break into the locked library. I'd caught a peak of the enormous shelves of tomes and volumes over the last two months, but it had been made quite clear through mostly silent actions, that I was not allowed in. It was locked every time Sam and Dean left on their hunts and I'd never had a chance to explore it. Yet, from what I had so briefly glimpsed, I could entertain myself for years in there.

The snow falling beyond the frosted windows deterred any real consideration of running for it. Prairie winters (or, late autumns, for that matter) weren't to be underestimated and I was well aware of the very real dangers of traveling through even a minor, early-season storm. Especially since all I had were short-shorts and tank tops, which I still strongly suspected had been selected by one Dean Winchester.

He'd left some of his own clothes, still clean and folded, in the laundry basket on top of the kitchen island, so I helped myself to a dark blue hoodie and a pair of forest green sweat pants that I had to roll up in order to fit. The clothes were well-worn and insanely comfortable, so in Dean's absence, they became my usual daily wear. The fact that they smelled faintly like him, didn't play a role in that decision, at all…

Dean, Sam, and Bobby left on Monday morning; by Friday night, somewhere around 2:00 in the morning, I finally jimmied my way past the library lock. Opening locks that didn't want to be opened was one of the skills one acquired over time as a correctional officer and I put it to good use with a vague sense of gleeful defiance. As the giant door swung open, I had a prickling across the skin of my arms, as if to warn me that entering the library was perhaps far more dangerous than kissing Dean. Here was a repository of knowledge that would only feed the power that had been slowly building up inside of me again, after so many years dormant.

The lack of psychotropic medicine helped with that rising. In fact, I rather suspected that was the main reason for my increased feelings of restlessness, anxious energy, racing mind, and unsettling awareness of senses that I had forced myself to forget. Drugs for PTSD and depression were quite effective in dampening my latent "gifts"; now that my body had exhausted the last, lingering stability of those chemicals, I was starting to feel like a stranger in my own skin.

I could feel things again, premonitions and emotions brushing against my skin like gentle breezes. I was suddenly aware – in a way that made the core of my body hum in a manner not unlike how Dean's kiss had made me feel – of the season, the weather, and the earth just outside the concrete walls around me. Song began to bubble up inside me, warming my blood to something that was almost alive within my veins; I found Dean's old boom-box and a collection of tapes and started to dance across the kitchen while I cleaned, singing happily along. My hands were beginning to tingle as they once had, filling slowly up with the power I had once used to heal and to love. When I lost myself in my cleaning, in my movement, in my singing, I began to feel that old, familiar, primal eagerness tug hard at my soul – the same eagerness that I had always fought, the same sense of eagerness that had always urged me to hunt.

I terrified myself. The changes that I was experiencing – changes that were as natural to me, really, as my hair – were in some ways quite welcome. I felt alive. I felt like I could see the world again, in all its beauty and awe. But, I was terrified of the power rising slowly in my hands, the power that had turned against me when I'd needed it most. I was terrified of what I knew would come next, that final "gift" that had driven me straight to the psychiatrist.

I couldn't sleep, too frightened of what might unfold one unsuspecting night. I waited as guilt, fear, and helpless frustration built up inside of me. I dreaded what would surely come for me in the end: the spirits and the Vision.

Going into the library and sifting through such ancient records of magic, myth, and power would surely only hasten the arrival of what I so dreaded. But…I was bored, a fate worse than death, really, as far as I was concerned. And I told myself that maybe I could find a "cure", a way to stop the ghosts and the dreams before they started to make their presence known once more.

Although, when I finally stepped through that library door, my eyes wide at the sheer volume of knowledge that was stacked up neatly all around me, I knew that nothing in the primordial lore could change what I truly was. And I couldn't help wondering: what would Dean think when he came back and saw me, bared naked by the truth?

* * *

><p>The dreams started much sooner than I would have liked – far too soon for my tentative perusal of the library to have had any effect on my Vision. I was averaging about three or four hours at intermittent intervals, so I wasn't really keeping a strict "sleep at night, stay up during the day" sort of schedule. I was catching naps whenever my body told me that it was time to do so. The first dream did happen to catch me at night, but it was fairly early on in the evening, only 7 or so. I had dozed off on the couch while reading a book that I had found on top of Dean's library desk – Storm Front, it was called, and I was almost done with it. I'd drifted off telling myself that there was no way I was going to be deprived of the further adventures of Harry Dresden, Wizard; I had every intention of finally snooping through Dean's room later to see if he had the next books in the series.<p>

The dream that came to me wasn't what I would have expected. In retrospect, I wondered what had inspired it – maybe it was the scent of Dean's skin on the hoodie pulled snug up around my chin and cheeks? Maybe it was the unlikely (and rather hysterical) similarity of Dresden's snarky personality to Dean's own smart-ass demeanor? Maybe it was the fact that in the back of my mind, where that little whispering voice in the back of my mind that hoped he'd come through the Bunker's front door any day now? Maybe it was because after two weeks of struggling with Dean's final demand and my own re-awakening sexuality, I'd been debating whether or not I wanted to defy him (after all, how the hell would he know if I "obeyed" or not? And who the hell was he to me, to even suggest such a thing)?

But, sleep claimed me softly as Storm Front slipped off my chest and onto the floor. After maybe 40 minutes or so of a deepening slumber, me consciousnesses slipped into the lucid dream world I'd been avoiding since Jake's death…

* * *

><p>"Well, I think it's safe to say we might be stuck in here for a while, Sarge."<p>

My eyes took a minute to adjust to the darkness that surrounded me. I could sense that the space that I was in was small and that I was clearly not alone – even if Dean hadn't said anything, I would have been aware of his body. For some reason that I couldn't entirely comprehend, he was kneeling in front of me and, from the sound of his voice, was facing away from me. The stale, unmistakable musk of male bodies assaulted my nose and it was a distinctive aroma that I'd never be able to forget. It told me all that I needed to know about where I was – inside of the grey-blue prison walls that I knew so well. I blinked with the suddenly realization that I was inside of a cell – which surely meant, for some unfathomable reason, that I was in confinement with Dean Winchester.

What the hell.

I didn't even want to think about what Dean meant by "we'll be in here for a while" – what were we doing in confinement? Hell…what was _I_ doing in a confinement cell with an _inmate_? My thoughts raced as I fumbled for the long-handled flashlight that I always kept hooked to my work belt. (I took it completely for granted that I would _wearing_ my uniform – apparently, my dreaming mind had thought of the minor details.) I thumbed the switch with confident fingers in a rapid process that was all touch and second-nature; both Dean and I hissed at the sudden ray of concentrated LED light.

It lit up most of the narrow cell, although the corners were still shrouded in dim shadows. I quickly turned the light toward the space in front of me and it shone so brightly against the back of Dean's head that his short hair shone like spun gold. I frowned, puzzled to find him kneeling (as I had suspected), with his hands cuffed soundly behind him. My concern deepened considerably when I saw a set of three long, wide, deep, and bloody gashes arching over the curve of his right shoulder, from back to front. The wounds were severe enough that the shoulder of his blue uniform shirt had been stained a dark coppery red. Since it wasn't easy to turn a cuffed, kneeling man, I briskly walked around him and took a firm stance between him and the plain, flat bunk that he'd been facing.

He jerked his head away, his eyes squeezing shut tightly, as the flashlight bobbed across his face. There was another gash along the edge of his hairline, from just above his left eyebrow and across toward his left ear. A line of blood tracked a clear path across his cheeks and eye; there were flecks of blood across his neck and chest as well. My eyebrows rose in alarm – it looked as if a bag of blood had exploded in Dean's proximity. My final look-over took in the long, bloody stripes that continued over his shoulder from the back, down across his collarbone and half-way down his chest.

His clothes were torn and bloody. Sweat made his face shine in the light and he looked rather uncomfortable, resting as he was on unprotected knees against the unforgiving concrete floor.

I swallowed uncomfortably – he was hot as fuck, bound and bloody as he was.

I firmly pushed that thought away – I was back in uniform, my badge gleaming proudly on my ample chest. This was not the time nor the place for such unprofessional behavior – even if I knew now that Dean was not guilty of the crimes for which he had been sentenced (well, the murders, at least). And if he _was_ guilty of his crimes, well then…I figured that obeying the law did not prevent the Apocalypse.

I took a quick stock of the situation and decide that there wasn't enough room in the cramped space for me to take a knee down in front of him, in order to inspect his wounds more closely. So, I perched on the bunk behind me; my damn legs were so short, though, that in order to have my boots planted firmly on the ground, I had to sit fairly close to the edge of it. That made my knees stick out, though, so in order for there to be a comfortable space to examine him in, I had to plant my feet apart from each other, so that my knees framed the breadth of his shoulders. I was so intent on making sure that he wasn't going to pitch over from blood loss or the like, however, that I didn't notice that I had now placed us in a distinctly compromised position.

I placed my flashlight carefully on the thin mattress beside my brown, cargo pant-covered thigh and then placed my now-tingling palms gently against his temples. I titled his face up toward mine with practiced skill and leaned forward to take a closer look at the depth of the wound across his forehead.

My body was almost painfully aware of how close we were, of the dominance of my position and the appealing submission of his. I could smell his deodorant beneath the primal tang of blood and the lingering scent of his shampoo from his nightly shower. His face was so close to my thighs – and most importantly, to the _apex _of my thighs – that I knew that he could probably smell your arousal.

Because, badge or no badge, I was hopelessly turned on by the heat, the blood, the submission at play within such tiny confines.

I took a deep breath, though, and firmly told those thoughts to go jump off a cliff. My hands had begun to tingle; I could feel the rush of power surge into the pads of my fingertips. It felt very much like blood, when it rose to the surface of the skin in a blush and it was not an unpleasant sensation. It did make my fingers a little stiff, though, and swollen, like they did when I ran in hot weather. Once again, not an unpleasant sensation, but one that did beg for release. I sternly centered my thoughts on this all-too-familiar feeling and slowly lifted my left hand from the side of his head.

It was a little easier to deal with the arousal that curled and danced within the tight confines of my solar plexus, now that the part of myself that had been a medic had stepped up to the fore. The correctional officer in me stepped aside, the wanton woman hushed her sensual murmur, and for that moment I felt a sense of perfect mental clarity. I moved the fingers of my left hand gently across the broken skin of Dean's forehead and I took another deep breath.

This time, it was an inhalation of exhilaration. I had missed healing, at a level of my being that was so fundamental that I couldn't have separated it from myself if I tried (and I had). There was no cure for this power and for that moment, I realized that I didn't want there to be one.

I felt the soft edges of Dean's emotions, stirring wildly beneath his skin. I could feel the gentle firing of the neurons inside of his mind – they felt like little electrical sparks against my skin and the sensation simply intensified the tingling in my fingers. I could feel his thoughts racing – I wasn't telepathic, though, so I couldn't determine what the specifics of those thoughts were. But, I could taste the nature of those emotions in the chemicals that flooded his blood – arousal, fear, aggression. I could tell the nature of primal emotions and his were surprisingly simple, startlingly honest.

Dean was a wild thing, a part of his soul so achingly pure that it made the corners of my eyes prickle with tears. There was so much pain layered around that pure, chaotic core though, that I felt my instincts tugged hard with the compulsion to comfort and heal the intangible parts of his being, as much as his physical body.

Fuck. I was drawn to him, in so many more ways than just physical. Oh, I was way in over my head.

Dean was a wounded beast and the realization made the power within me explode outward through my fingers. I just barely controlled it at the last moment; it was like reigning in a half-broke horse, but it was also something that I had done a thousand times before. I moved instinctively, lifting my hands to hover just above his skin until I had pulled the power back. Only then, did I place my right hand against his cheek and firmly brushed the fingers of my left hand over the gash along his hairline.

My touch was firm and I felt Dean wince beneath my hands. I was completely focused on my task, however, as I carefully allowed just the right amount of power to pour gently through my fingertips and into the wound. I felt the threat of infection along the ragged edges of the cut; I felt his white blood cells struggling to heal on their own; I felt his skin respond to my power and knit together beneath my fingers. I burned away the bad and encouraged the good to mend – it took mere moments in reality, but in the depth of my focus, it seemed like it took ages for his body to respond to my unspoken commands.

It was a perfect recovery, though, as it had always been before that fateful day in Iraq. I felt a feeling of relief as I finally let go of Dean's head and leaned back slightly to survey my work. I'd allowed my pent up power to vent just a bit and my skin, my body, felt less tight as a result. I knew that once I was done with his shoulder and chest, that I'd be exhausted from the effort. But for now, I reveled in a warm haze of accomplishment that felt entirely too much like the after-glow of good sex.

I met Dean's gaze; dried blood still accentuated the curve of his eye and cheeks. It would take plain old water and cloth to clean up the memories of his wounds. His deep green eyes were a mixture of desire, surprise, and calculation. He was fucking beautiful, in his lingering pain and blood, and I felt desire pool thick between my legs.

"You're full of surprises, Sarge," Dean's voice was the deepest I'd ever heard, a heavy rasp like the rub of stubble against smooth breast.

His pupils were large and I knew from my experiences with Jake that he could feel my own emotions through my hands as I could his. Fuck. He'd have to be brain-dead not to know how fucking turned on I was.

That scarlet woman stirred to life inside of my chest and the medic in my mind firmly told her to stay put. I still had work to do. Without acknowledging a word Dean had said, I silently reached for his head again and leaned forward.

The air was hot and thick inside of the bare walls of the cell. I took a moment to take stock of the world outside of the heavy steel door – nothing stirred and I was rather surprised to realize that the two of us were completely alone. It was then that remembered that this was simply a dream and I took a steadying breath once again. If I was lucky, I'd be the only one who experienced this dream in a lucid state.

He turned his head toward my thigh, until his cheek rested against the rough material of my dark brown cargo pants. I leaned over him, until my breasts almost brushed the back of his neck. Ignoring the incredible intimacy of the position, I eyed his back with professional detachment.

The blood had congealed, sticking his blue, scrub-like shirt and white undershirt to the wound. I'd have to pull the fabric away, which would hurt him like hell. But, if I tried to heal him with his clothes in the way, I'd run the risk of accidentally knitting skin and cloth together. My healing powers were rather primal, so if let loose without any higher reasoning, they'd use whatever material was present to get the job done.

I had strong hands and wrists, having never given up the habit of starting my morning with a strict routine of push ups and calisthenics. I didn't have scissors or a knife at my disposal, since even for a correctional officer, such things were forbidden on prison property. Dean's prison uniform was fifth or fourth hand at best and had been mended with fabric from other, older, shirts. This meant that the center of his shirt back was a patch of two different types of cloth, stitched together in neat lines from top to bottom. I grabbed his shirt along the edges of these two different fabrics and tore firmly down the row of stitches. I felt Dean grunt in surprise against my thigh and his shoulder shifted subtly against my knees.

His shirt gave way easily; the collar of his white t-shirt was ragged and warn, so it was easy for me to tear that down the middle as well. Within seconds, the freckled skin of his back peaked through the neat, if frayed, edges of his shirts. Ignoring the unspeakable sexiness of literally tearing his clothes off of him, my touch turned gentle again. I carefully pulled the edges of his shirts out of the grooves of the wounds on his shoulder. He shifted again against me, but this time his movements were motivated by pain instead of arousal. I made a soft murmur of empathy and encouragement, but didn't let up with my task. Blood started to run again freely, but I let it, knowing that it would be a moot point in a few moments.

Once the fabric was separated from his wounds, I pushed his shirts off of his shoulders all together. This laid the whole of his back naked to my gaze and I couldn't help the hitch of my breath as I briefly admired the sexy play of muscle and tanned skin as he shifted his bound hands against his lower back. I nearly lost my professional focus at the sight of the metal cuffs binding his big, powerful hands submissively together. The cuffs made his arm muscles bulge against the strain of the awkward, uncomfortable position and I couldn't help tracing a vein that popped tight against his skin, between his elbow and bicep. His skin was hot, as if fevered, and we both heard and felt him moan against my thigh.

Fuck. Just...FUCK.

It was ridiculous how sexy it was to have such a wild, dominant, dangerous man fettered firmly between my legs. I knew instinctively that he could resist, too – he could jerk his head up, hard, against my chest, for example. Maybe even smash the back of his skull against my nose. He could fight and resist. But instead, he leaned ever so subtly into my body; the curve of one powerful, broad shoulder had actually begun to press into my throbbing core.

He brought me back to reality when I felt his teeth nip my skin beneath my pants. My body spasmed in surprise and a soft breath – not quite a moan – escaped from my lips. He didn't stop there, either; my inner medic fought with my innate wickedness. My medic self lost the tussle, though, when Dean slowly dragged his lips against my thigh. I could have stopped him from turning his head toward the apex of my thighs, but I was just as helpless against him as he currently was against me. A long, high-pitched whine filled the air as his nose nuzzled my hot, aching crotch and I dimly realized that I was the one who had made that breathless sound.

His mouth – that slick, burning, talented mouth – opened against my clothed core and nibbled the thick seam that lead up toward my zipper. He pushed his face against the fabric and his nose pressed purposefully against the little bud of my swollen clit.

"Fuck," I breathed.

I knew that I should stop him. I knew that I should focus on healing his shoulder. But, it had been years since I'd felt something so delicious and my body betrayed my better senses.

"Take your pants off," he rasped hoarsely; the words had barely finished humming against my pussy, before my fingers were trembling along the buckle of my uniform belt. "I need to taste you."

Need. Not want. NEED.

We were beyond social and professional niceties. This wasn't a matter of choice anymore. This was basic, primal, animalistic compulsion. This was on the level of air, and water, and food. It didn't matter to me that I was in uniform, that my badge heaved about on my panting chest. It didn't matter that an inmate was demanding oral sex. It didn't matter even that this was simply nothing more than a dream.

The beasts within us had taken over.

There was an slight opportunity for reason to take over, as our bodies moved apart just long enough for me to fumble with the laces of my boots. Dean leaned back on his heels, but instead of wondering why the fuck I was letting him do this, I was instead wondering if I should open his cuffs. We maintained a heated staring contest as I twisted and trembled on the hard bunk beneath my body. My boots dropped to the floor with a heavy thud and his gaze turned feral as I pushed my panties and pants down over my thighs without any pretense of formality. I decided, as my pants – heavy with the loaded belt threaded through its loops – joined my boots on the concrete cell floor, that the sight of him with hands bound behind his bloody back was just too fucking hot to change.

I didn't even hesitate – completely overcome by the roaring desire thundering against my tight, hot skin – as I leaned back against the bunk and spread my legs open. My core was so fucking hot, so fucking wet, so fucking wanton, that I didn't give a damn how desperate I might look. All I cared about was the way his eyes flared wide with appreciation, as his gaze fastened instantly on the neatly shaved pussy I put so nicely on display.

"Let me see you," his voice was a ragged whisper that ghosted along the faint hairs of my upper thighs like a caress.

I obeyed, helpless, even though he was the one kneeling and cuffed. I rested my shoulders against the wall and slipped my hands between my thighs. I slowly tugged my folds apart with a whispery groan and Dean leaned forward as if mesmerized by the sight. I couldn't help flicking a finger against my clit and my hips jerked a little with the sensation.

"You're fucking gorgeous," his tone was reverent, his breath surprising gentle against my core, before his tongue reached out and licked the moist groove between my labia and my inner folds.

"Ahh!" I gasped and jerked; Dean titled his head up just long enough, his expression both intense and sincere.

He licked his lips, clearly savoring the taste of me like one would a fine wine.

"Better than cherry pie," his eyes crinkled up in a sexy grin and I could only gape in astonishment at his proclamation, before he abruptly buried his face between my legs.

He ate me as hungrily as he would said cherry pie. There was no holding back and from the second his large, strong tongue lapped the length of my pussy, I knew that here was a man who fucking loved eating a woman out. I promptly lost myself in the roiling sea of sensation.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I cried in a breathless litany, as he tasted every slick inch.

His tongue laved the curves and grooves of my folds. The pointed tip of it thrust firmly inside of me for several intoxicating strokes, before flattening out against my sensitive entrance and then dragging slowly up toward my clit. He flicked my little bud and twirled his tongue 'round and 'round it in agonizing intent. He groaned in appreciation as he closed his lips and teeth around my piercing and tugged it firmly up in a gentle tease.

I couldn't stay quiet and my cries seemed to only drive him on. He did take a moment, however, once he'd let my piercing go, to glance up at me through his lashes, his mouth curved in a devious smirk.

"Never gone down on a woman with a clit piercing before," his voice was husky, but clear.

I panted helplessly.

"Have to say, I like something extra to play with down here."

He winked at me – the saucy, impertinent thing – and then latched his lips on the cool, curved metal of my piercing for a second time. His fascination with it was quickly evident, as he rolled it between his teeth and tongue. He alternated tugging at it and pressing it experimentally down on the swollen bud beneath it. It was technically a hood piercing, since I wasn't built right for a flat-out clit piercing, but the difference was insubstantial with Dean's mouth at work. For a man who claimed to have never encountered such a thing before, he worked me over like a pro.

The entirety of my existence narrowed down to the strong lips suckling my core, to the supple tongue teasing me into incoherence, to the teeth that nibbled with just the right amount of mind-blowing pressure. I didn't give a damn how loud I was and the sounds of my pleasure only seemed to encourage him. My eyes squeezed shut on instinct, but every so often, I forced them open again, just so I could appreciate the impressive play of muscle across his back as he moved against me.

Damn, but Dean Winchester put his whole body into the moment, holding nothing back. His head rolled back and forth against my thighs; his shoulders rubbed against my legs and if the cuffs inhibited him, he showed no evidence of discomfort or frustration. My hands moved as much as his body, my fingers dragging hard through his short and surprisingly soft hair, my palm cupping the back of his neck as I pushed my hips up toward his face.

If he minded me grinding my pussy against his face, he didn't show it. I practically rode his mouth, canting my hips so his nose could press the sensitive flesh just above my clit. My head moved frantically back and forth against the wall and I completely lost my mind with the incredible pleasure that popped and sizzled over my whole damn body.

I could feel the pressure building up hard in my lower belly. Normally, I didn't show any sign of this, except for pressing my legs closer together and pushing my hips up sharply. But, this time, my body began to betray me far in advance of my orgasm. I began to shake with the incredible power of the building tension and the noises I had been making began to fade into silent screams of inexpressible desperation. I knew, almost instinctively, that when I came apart in Dean's hot, hungry mouth, that it would mix a potent explosion of pain and pleasure. I'd never felt such incredible intensity possess my body ever before.

And then, it stopped.

I didn't even know how to cope with this sudden, unexpected torture. My body shouted for release and I was trembling helplessly against Dean's shoulders. My eyes snapped open, helpless whimpers falling from my mouth, as I jerked my chin down to stare at him in incomprehension.

I had wondered, briefly, before Dean had started working me over so thoroughly, if he was experiencing the dream with me, as Jake used to do. The wicked, wicked hunter between my legs answered that question with a devilish grin.

"I just remembered, Kelly," his voice was irritatingly steady, as if he was in such complete control of himself that he could switch effortlessly between sexual abandonment and every-day clarity. "You still can't come until I'm home. But, nice try, sweetheart."


	4. Burnin' For You

"_Burn out the day,  
>Burn out the night,<br>I can't see no reason to put up a fight.  
>I'm living for giving the devil his due,<br>And I'm burning, I'm burning, I'm burning for I,  
>I'm burning, I'm burning, I'm burning for I."<em>

"**Burnin' For I"  
>Blue Oyster Cult<strong>

I woke up, my eyes wide and my back arching hard above my mattress. My soft cotton sheets were twisted around my legs and I was panting hard. Power and arousal thrummed through me like an electrical current and I couldn't quite wrap my mind what had just happened. As if on instinct, my fingers searched frantically for my clit and I spent a few frenetic moments trying to relieve the incredible _lust_ that was practically burning me for release. But after a few frustrated moments, I nearly sobbed with the sudden realization that I _couldn't_ get myself off on my own.

My body wanted something _more_, something _else_. I'd gotten a taste of what Dean Winchester could do and so help me, I didn't want to settle for my five fingers. I'd been settling for years and now the tides had changed. Dean had basically ensured that I _wasn't_ going to get off while he was gone. He'd awakened my body to the delicious range of possibilities that could unfurl between us and my body wasn't going to accept anything less than more of the wild, uninhibited reality that Dean had showed me.

"Fuck you, Dean Winchester!" I yelled as loudly as I could into my dark bedroom.

I gave up on my body doing anything at all reasonable – like relieving its pent up pressure – and I rolled dramatically onto my side with an equally dramatic huff. I hadn't even made up my mind (much less my heart) about whether or not I wanted to engage Dean in such an emotionally dangerous dance. But, it seemed like every time I got around him, my damn body took over my better senses.

It was fucking _insane_.

And why...just..._why_? Why did all of this have to happen? What _had_ happen? I still had no idea what had transpired between when I'd been attacked from behind and when I'd woken up in the Bunker.

And it rankled to think that Dean, Sam, and Bobby were out there on a hunt. Not just any hunt, but a hunt that involved my own father.

And all I could do was lay in the dark, alone, bored out of my mind and burning all of my common sense to ash with an inexplicable lust for the eldest Winchester. I punched my pillow angrily.

It was so fucking unfair. I had power, I had gifts, I had possibilities within me that the brothers probably hadn't ever imagined. But, here I was – being kept like a fragile little flower. I should be out there, hunting with them. Fighting with them. Protecting with them. If I was to give up my badge, if I was to be forced to live in this life, then by _God_ I didn't want to exist so passively.

I was going to have words with Dean when he got back.

Or, at least, I was going to have words with Dean, _after_ the two of us worked out whatever the hell simmered between us. Because, rational human conversation just wasn't possible until _that_ was resolved.

Until, for the love of all that was holy, he got me off.

And then, for sure, I promised into the lonely night, I was going to force him to let me join him on the hunt. And by 'force', I meant by any means necessary. That was when the scarlet woman sidled up to my higher self and whispered the seeds of a dirty, wicked little plan that made my lips curl up in the first genuine smile in months.

Oh, yeah. Dean Winchester was going to let me hunt. He'd only _think_ he had a choice in the matter.

I spent another week and a half puttering around the Bunker on my own. Hallowe'en was just two days away and premature snow was swirling yet again on the outside of the grimy windows. After my shared dream with Dean, there was no way to deny that my inherent abilities had emerged in full, completely functional, force. Those powers still felt awkward and new, after so many years laying dormant under the control of strong psychotropics, but each passing day made the reality of their rebirth a little easier to bear. I barely even noticed, for example, when my body stopped reacting to the temperatures around me. I wore Dean's hoodie and sweatpants out of habit at this point, but in reality, I was no longer affected by the chilly atmosphere of the Bunker. It was a relief, really, and I could have meandered about naked if I so desired, and have been as comfortable as I would have been fully clothed.

Now that I had something of a plan on how to deal with Dean – a plan that could basically be summed up in two simple word: seductive persuasion – I was a little more at ease with the whole situation. I was still distracted, in the back of my mind, by what was going on with my father (and quite possibly, my mother, too). I was still struggling with the acceptance of my powers, which had definitely come back in full force. But, the hauntings hadn't started yet and there were no more crazy lust-filled lucid dreams accidentally shared with Dean. There weren't any other kinds of dreams, either...yet...and I was A-OK with that. I wasn't sure that I could handle such things on my own in an empty house that wasn't mine.

I spent my days alternating between the library, the kitchen, and the common room. I had ventured just briefly into Dean's room – a dim, messy, masculine lair if ever there was one – to see if I could find more Dresden Files books. I found most of the series stacked haphazardly in a corner, along with a pile of feminine clothing, which included such things as jeans and sweaters.

"I'm going to kill you, Dean," I muttered angrily; it had taken me two trips to carry both the clothes and the books out.

At least my suspicious had been correct – Dean _had_ stolen the more sensible clothes that Sam had so thoughtfully bought for me. Damn, fucking, misogynistic bastard. Ugh.

I purposefully avoided the temptation of exploring the rest of Dean's room. There was really no point to doing so – except to sate my own curiosity – and I was a little afraid of what I might find, truth be told. I could only imagine what sorts of things a man like him kept in the drawer of his nightstand and I decided that it was best if I didn't find out on my own.

Actually, it was probably best if I didn't find out at all, _ever_, but I was a realist. If dream-Dean could drive me into near-incoherence with desire, then I wasn't going to fare any better against real-life Dean. Considering the sort of porn that he watched (I was still a little resentful about even _knowing_ something like that), Dean didn't really possess anything in the way of inhibitions. I would probably be well-acquainted with whatever surprises he kept stashed away, and probably sooner rather than later.

I tried to figure out what I was going to do when he came home, how I was going to react to him. The way that my body had taken over in my dream unsettled me deeply. I knew, in some instinctual part of my self, that I couldn't really help my reactions to Dean – he was a primal being at his core and unfortunately, so was I. If I had realized anything at all, it was this: the two of us were made of the same stuff. I could try and come up with a logical, rational, acceptably dignified response to his home coming...and the blunt truth of the matter was that the two of us would either pick up fighting and snipping at each other, or the two of us would fall on top of the nearest horizontal surface as soon as we could. There really wasn't much in the way of an in-between – respectable human discourse was not a realistic expectation at this point.

I was perpetually distracted, but thankfully, I was the only sentient person in the enormous place, so it didn't really matter if I drifted about in state of complete disconnection. I was confused by so many things and there was no one to bounce those thoughts off of – there were no phones, no internet, and even if here were, I knew better than to use either one of them. That didn't stop I from wishing that I could talk to my mother, or to my best friend, or hell, even Bobby. Bobby might have his own view of the world, but at least he listened more than he talked where I was concerned.

Of course, I reasoned, if listening was the only requirement, then a _cat _would have sufficed.

A day after that line of thought, I was abruptly reconnected with one of the many weird facts of life associated with my particular abilities. The period of time that I had spent on my medications, and therefore disconnected from my gifts, was the longest that I had ever lived without animal companionship. A fact that had usually been out of the control of me, my parents, Jake, or the powers of the military institution. Animals just usually found _me_...it was hardly ever the other way around.

I had forgotten about this strange attraction to the natural world, so I wasn't expecting what I found half-frozen to the doorstep that Thursday morning when I tentatively opened one of the Bunker's enormous (and enormously heavy) double doors. My only intention was to get a bit of fresh air – the sky outside my windows were a chilly blue, but beautiful. The sun hung high in that crystal sky, surprisingly strong for a late October afternoon. It simply looked like a gorgeous fall-winter day and I was beginning to succumb from an almost insufferable case of cabin fever. I wanted to run, wanted to fill my lungs with cold, clean air, wanted to frolic in the wild abandon of the natural world.

I told myself that I'd settle for just a quick breath of that clean, fresh, autumn air, laced with snow from the fields and the pumpkin spice from nearby Lawrence. That probably would have ended up being a bad idea, since what was intended to just be a peak around the corner of the door and a quick breath, turned into me opening the door fully and stepping out toward the tempting stretch of curving road. My body quivered and I wasn't sure if it was because a stiff wind that was blowing around the corner of the building, or because I had to fight the urge to take off toward the dark line of trees in the distance.

The wild whispered to me softly and so help me – I wanted to embrace it and revel in it as thoroughly as I wanted to fuck Dean Winchester senseless. I paused a moment to consider that surprisingly important comparison – as a child and as an adult, I hadn't really had any reason to psycho-analyze my gifts. They were simply a part of who I was, part and parcel of my identity, of my soul. Having been out of touch with them for six years, only to fully embody them without much in the way of planning or consent, made me more thoughtful about their existence in the first place.

I thought of Dean as a wild thing – my soul saw in his what it recognized within me, a sort of chaotic, primal, unbroken defiance that made us both wander bravely through a world that didn't know how to react to us. I was drawn to him. I was drawn to the wild things that moved and shifted in the fields and forest; I, too, sensed the primal purity of their beings, which was different than the human soul, but not so much so that they couldn't stir a sense of kinship with them within me.

There was something there, in this recognition of wildness within a variety of life forms, that nipped at the edge of my mind in gentle warning. Not warning as in a warning of danger, but a warning in a manner meant to alert me to something important, something that I shouldn't ignore, dismiss, or forget. There was a key there, in this allure toward wildness and primal powers, that commanded further investigation. I wasn't sure how to pursue such an investigation, but maybe if I put all of my gifts down on paper and consulted the collected knowledge in the Bunker's library, I might finally begin to answer some long-standing questions about myself.

Maybe, even, I'd be able to find something of a cure, some way of controlling who and what I was, so that I didn't kill again, so that I didn't use the distilled essence of myself to destroy purity and life. That, more than anything else, haunted me and stirred the dark depths of my conscious like the Biblical Leviathan.

I shoved such thoughts out of my head with a firm, calming inhalation. I reveled in the feel of the cold air filling my lungs and nipping playfully at my exposed nose. I wasn't bothered by the cold, even outside of the comfortable confines of the Bunker, although I was able to certainly appreciate that – abilities or not – traipsing about across the half-frozen earth would inevitably result in a thorough case of hypothermia.

Without thinking really, I took a step forward...and nearly tripped over an unexpected stiffness on the ground in front of me. Blinking in surprise, I stopped abruptly and stared down at my slippered feet (I'd stolen the only ones I could find, which belonged to Sam, and I privately marveled at how I hadn't fallen face-first in their awkward enormousness yet). At first, my brain wouldn't process what my eyes were telling me – there was a pathetic little form laid out on its side, it's long gray-black fur matted with what looked like dirt and blood, its little eyes closed, its little nose barely moving with shallow breaths. Tiny paws...long lop ears...fragile body...

There was a rabbit, half-frozen on the hard, frost-bitten dirt in front of the Bunker's entrance. A distinctly non-wild rabbit, since long-fur and lop-ears were strictly domesticated traits.

"Ask I shall receive," I muttered, recalling my thoughts cats.

So, I'd inadvertently asked the universe for a cat and I'd been sent a rabbit instead. I wasn't going to be picky – company was company, regardless of the form it took. I bent over immediately – all thoughts of disappearing into the forest forgotten – and tenderly slipped my hands beneath the shoulder and haunches of the poor little thing.

There was still enough within it for it to whimper in the squeaky-squealy sort of way that rabbits did. But, it didn't have enough spirit left to move or to protest in any sort of physical sense. Its eyes had opened, though, and it looked at me with wide, frightened blue eyes. They were as dark as Sam's eyes and just as sentient. I felt my heart pulled toward the diminutive creature and with my heart, my power.

"C'mon, little guy," I whispered, knowing instinctively – on a level that I couldn't analyze – that this was a buck, a male. "Let's get you inside, okay?"

I held his body – so thin, and ragged, and cold – against my warmer chest and retreated carefully into the safety of the Bunker. The smell of the autumn winds still tugged at my wandering soul, but I was captured by the helplessness between my healing hands and I couldn't have left such a wounded, wild, precious animal to winter's cruel grasp.

I felt something inside of me slide into place, as those sad brown eyes stared unblinkingly up at me, trust an unspoken and tenuous treasure that connected him to me, and hope an unspoken promise from me to him.

_So_, a voice of absolute certainty gently named the bond that I felt being forged between our mutually wounded bodies. _This is what it feels like to meet my familiar._

That same, quiet voice – an oddly small, but masculine voice – informed me after about two or three hours that the rabbit's name was Mr. Pibbles. A suitably adorable name for such an adorable little fellow, I thought with a half-smile, but I knew enough about rabbits to know that rabbits usually undermined any one person's assumptions about them. They weren't Tricksters in world-wide mythologies without due reason. Adorable he might be, but once healed, he could probably hold his own as fiercely as any rabbit.

I healed Mr. Pibbles, as intuitively and instinctively as I had healed Dean in my dream. Cleaning him was another matter entirely, though, and I found myself standing in the middle of the kitchen, frustrated by the sudden realization that I had _nothing _with which to care for a rabbit. No food, no hay, no bedding, no pen (the voice interjected and sternly told me that there would be no pen involved in the life of this little bun), no litter box, no food or water dishes, no comb for his surprisingly silky fur, no toys. I opened the fridge out of pure habit, thinking maybe there were some celery sticks shoved into the back of the crisper, but then I was faced with the reality that there was barely anything to feed _myself_.

The boys had been gone too long and hadn't left behind enough food to compensate for the length of their absence.

"Dammit," I muttered and then added a spiteful, "Dean", because it made me feel better to blame everything on the eldest Winchester, regardless of whether he was actually or fault or not.

I had no phone. No internet.

I paced around the common room for a while, eyeing Mr. Pibbles every time I passed him by. The rabbit – who I guessed was probably a pure-bred American Fuzzy Lop – was snuggled comfortably in a pile of gently microwave-warmed towels. He was laying in the loaf-box position, which best described the way he lay with his chest over his front paws and his back paws pulled precisely underneath his tummy, in a way that mimicked the form of a bread loaf, or a rectangular box, or really, both. He had his chin propped up on one towel that I'd fluffed up in front of his face, since I knew that rabbits most enjoyed sleeping with their heads elevated (usually, on the back of their companion). His eyes were closed and I knew – through instinct and previous experience with a pet rabbit – that he was fast asleep. The gash on his side had been ugly – probably created by a cat's vicious claws – and the hypothermia he'd narrowly avoided had justifiably worn his little body out.

I needed to provide a good home for him and, as my stomach growled, I needed to have food for myself. I'd peeked into the cupboards, but hamburger helper was pointless without the hamburger and I'd sooner starve myself than eat canned hash. None of the men in the Bunker seemed to believe in vegetables – even canned ones – and I couldn't even eat PB and J, since what was left of the bread had molded over.

I needed to check in with the boys...and there was only one way to do that. I sighed heavily and just barely stopped myself from throwing myself dramatically down on the end of the dark-green-and-polished-wood couch opposite Mr. Pibbles. I remembered just in time that I didn't want to wake the poor bun up in a panic, so I eased myself down and only then flopped back to stare balefully at the chipped ceiling above.

Healing Mr. Pibbles had made me sleepy, as there had been enough damage to the little bun's body to drain a significant amount of my power. I sighed heavily and closed my eyes. The only way to communicate was to dream...so dream I did.

_Dean shifted sleepily beneath me. He was sprawled out in an over-stuffed armchair, in a position of complete exhaustion. I cleared my throat uncertainly, slightly unsettled by the fact that I was straddling his thighs and dressed in nothing more than his blue-checked, button-up shirt and a pair of red silk, bikini-style panties (which was, incidentally, what I'd been wearing around the house that day). Dean was fully dressed, but there was dirt smudged across his cheeks and the left side of his over-shirt was frayed from where it had clearly come in contact with a hostile [I had no real idea, so insert bladed weapon of preference here]._

_I stifled a squeak of surprise as a pair of warm, rough hands ghosted softly across the sensitive skin of my naked thighs. My eyes snapped immediately to Dean's face; he still lay with his head back against the chair, but his eyes were open and he was watching me thoughtfully from beneath his heavy lashes._

"_Well, fancy seeing you again," he murmured, his voice sleepy, husky, and warm; he seemed genuinely pleased to see me and that was probably more confusing to me than any other emotion he could have displayed._

"_Yeah, well, uh..." I stuttered a bit and tried not to shift about, as I was wont to do when I was uncomfortable; I was painfully aware of the thick seam of his jeans pressing against my core. "Have to admit, I'm here strictly for business."_

"_Oh, well, in that case," a lewd leer lifted the corners of his mouth and he quickly moved one hand from my thigh to his zipper._

"_Not that kind of business, you damn jerk!" I tried to sound as intimidating as possible while stifling a yelp of indignation; I punched him solidly on the meaty part of his upper chest out of sheer instinct._

_He just grunted softly and laughed. As if to indicate his willingness to be respectful and to listen, he lifted both of his hands to shoulder height and showed me his empty palms._

"_Okay, okay! Got it," his green eyes twinkled, but he cleared his throat and started moving beneath me in order to sit up attentively._

_I bit my lip in an attempt to keep from groaning – from frustration or lust, I wasn't exactly sure – as his lap wiggled between my hips. Oh, damn. I felt the hard muscles in his thighs and the rough friction of his jeans against the softer, tender skin of mine. I fought the urge to look away from him, too, when his eyes caught the sight of my lip between my teeth and desired flared unmistakably across those emerald depths. Instead, I lifted my chin stubbornly and stared him down as best I could – my lip still between my teeth in a sign of silent defiance. Oh, but the liquid heat swirling around in my lower belly tried desperately to undermine my backbone – the wild stirred within me and all I really wanted to do was to press myself as tightly as I could against Dean's amazing chest and twine my fingers through his hair._

"_So, what's on you mind?" thank God, but he broke my dangerous line of thought; I didn't quite meet his eyes as I answered._

"_Could you tell Bobby to drop by sometime soon? Like say, as soon as possible? If he can?" I wrinkled my nose and stoutly ignored those (fucking damn) hands that settled against my thighs again and repeated their slow slide up and down my skin._

"_Whatcha' need Bobby for?" there was a sudden look in Dean's eyes that I couldn't quite name; it wouldn't be until later that I realized it was jealousy._

"_I'm running out of food. Like...there's nothing. Nada," I dragged my eyes reluctantly from the darkness behind Dean's head to fix him sternly in the eyes. "And..." I paused delicately. "I need pet supplies."_

"_Excuse me?" Dean seemed like he'd been on board with the food part of that request, but his mind clearly derailed over the word "pet"._

"_I found a rabbit, clearly someone's abandoned pet, lying half-frozen in front of the Bunker's door -" I would have continued, except that Dean suddenly grabbed my arms, pulled me off balance against his shoulder and soundly slapped one of my abruptly exposed cheeks._

"_Dean fucking Winchester!" I howled in indignation, as the sting from his hand radiated dully across my ass._

_He slapped me again, harder, and I couldn't help yelping out in mingled surprise and pain. I also couldn't help wiggling against him in an attempt to regain my own control, which only succeeded in rubbing my bra-less breasts quite firmly against the broad expanse of his chest. He slapped me a third time and I finally looked him in the eye, in an attempt to figure out what the fuck was going on in his head._

_His brows were knitted together in a dangerous scowl and those full lips were pulled tight in a frown. There was anger in his eyes, but also...oddly...fear? I blinked and didn't even notice when his hard hand softened against my stinging flesh._

"_What the fuck were you doing outside?" I could practically feel – thanks to my close proximity to his body – his voice rumble ominously through his chest._

_It was sort of like laying on top of thunder, I thought randomly, finally registering the utterly distracting sensation of his hand gently smoothing my soundly punished cheek. Oh, hell – thick, wanton moisture pooled between my legs and I bit my lip again._

_An act which just made Dean's nostrils flare wide and his gaze turn hungry._

_He finally let go of my right arm and put that hand under my chin. He cupped it gently, although his fingers were rather unforgiving in their stiffness, and forced me to look at him. There was no alternative and I couldn't have looked anywhere else if I tried. This was a moment of truth and I swallowed nervously._

"_Answer me, Kelly. What were you doing outside?" Dean's tone did not invite any sort of quibbling._

"_I-I," I stuttered and then stopped._

Get yourself together, girlfriend_, that running commentary in my head sternly instructed me. _Now is NOT the time to be all weak and fragile.

"_I just stepped outside to get a breath of fresh air," I admitted; my tone was firm, but my words rushed together in a quiver that I couldn't quite hide. "It was a beautiful day and I just wanted to breath something other than the Bunker."_

_Dean didn't reply immediately. Instead, his eyes seemed to search for the depths of my very soul and after a long, awkward moment, I realized that he seemed to be debating something. Finally, he spoke, his fingers drifting along my still-smarting ass in the same sort of lazy rhythm as his words._

"_You're an interesting woman, Kelly. I think we've got some talking to do when I get back."_

"_Not until we fuck."_

_What. The. Bloody. Blazing. HELL._

_I would have smacked my face against the wall, if I could have. WHAT IN THE NAME OF SWEET JESUS POSSESSED ME? I decided, hastily, to blame it on the thick fingers that were tracing circles dangerously close to the soft, delicate skin beneath the curve of my cheeks. The soft, delicate skin that lead an increasingly slick trail straight to my long-unsatisfied core._

_Dean's face practically blossomed into the damn sexiest smile I'd ever seen. Crooked – titled more on one side than the other. Straight, strong teeth on display; just the teasing tip of his tongue roving restlessly behind his canines. I knew, in that breathless moment, that he was remembering the taste of me._

"_Now why would you say that?" he all but purred right into my ear._

_I couldn't help it. I shivered. And he chuckled, low in his throat._

"_Shut up, Dean," I panted heavily against his neck, unable to do much more than force myself to stay as still as possible._

_His fingers were doing dangerous 'twixt my nethers (as my personal hero, Kaylee Frye, would have said) and I could feel the press of his arousal against my stomach. I was all but splayed on top of him and I was a bit afraid to reclaim any dignity, since it would involve moving. And moving, alas, would mean negotiating my way around the thick bulge of Dean's cock._

_I wasn't quite ready for that, no matter what his fingers made me feel._

"_You sayin' you want me?"_

_Ugh. He was so irritatingly... I would have said 'arrogant', but the fact of the matter was, he was actually right._

_I wanted him._

"_No," I ground out through gritted teeth, as his roving fingers lightly brushed against my panties, against the curve of my swollen labia. "I'm saying," my breath hitched as his fingers danced higher and right across my aching clit. "That we are clearly incapable of civilized speech, as there are, ah-" I cleared my throat abruptly as his hand pressed harder against the betraying dampness of my crotch. "Some unresolved physical tension between us."_

"_I think I liked hearing you say you wanted to fuck me," Dean's lips were waaaay too close to me for comfort at that point; I remembered the kiss he'd given me before disappearing on his hunt and I couldn't help the nervous shift of my hips._

_His forefinger traced a maddening circle around my clit and I couldn't help bucking against him in response. Dean made a half-humming, half-groaning sound in his chest and his nose nuzzled the side of my cheek as he all but growled against my skin -_

"_I wanna' feel that sweet little pussy of yours clench hard around my fingers."_

_Fuck. The man knew how to talk dirty. I swallowed a needy little mewl._

_His next words were as sweet as could be and I had never, ever thought to hear a man utter them._

"_May I?"_

_His fingers had stopped their bold exploration and my answer rushed out of me in a sharp exhalation:_

"_Fuck yes, Dean."_

* * *

><p><p>

_I expected the experience to be fast and hard. But, Dean was in a mood I couldn't quite name and his fingers were maddeningly gentle. And fuck him right into that damn chair – he talked the whole damn time, forcing me to divide my attention to the scarred fingertips that pressed inquisitively along the tender muscles inside of me and the conversation that he seemed suddenly hell-bent on having._

"_So, if I hear about you poking your nose outside of the Bunker again, I'm going to throw you over my lap and spank you for real," his tone was pleasant, almost genial, as he brushed his unoccupied hand across my shoulders._

"_Why is it – ah – the fucking – um – end of the world if – oh – I go outside?" I was quite proud of myself for stinging together a coherent sentence, as he withdrew his questing fingers and traced them along the curve of my vulva._

"_Well, I'm afraid to admit that, despite our best efforts, you're still a wanted woman," Dean explained with as much intentional patience as if he were teaching the alphabet to a kindergartner._

"_What efforts?" I gasped as he slowly slid his middle finger into me – only up to the first knuckle, by the feel of it._

"_Glad you asked,"Dean seemed to be enjoying this way too much; his finger slid inside of me to the second knuckle and he wiggled it just enough to drag a long, needy moan out of my mouth. "Seems the regional muckety-muck has a major vendetta against your dad and he's bound and determined to pin our disappearance from the prison on you."_

_I played along – clearly, Dean wanted to torture me with talk, instead of getting down to the physical nitty gritty. And he was playing me against my ultimate weakness – my need to know, my need to control the situation through intelligence-gathering and fact-finding. All my body wanted to do was to shove my hips down on top of his gently thrusting fingers, but my brain wanted answers just as desperately._

"_Oh...well...that's good -" my voice hitched as he crooked his finger experimentally against a spongy little spot inside of me; it felt a little like he was pressing my clit from the inside and my words stumbled into a gasp of surprise._

_It had taken Jake a good year to figure out what that particular spot could do. And that was only until the two of us had had an utterly ridiculous and endearing debate about the existence of the g-spot. I'd primly informed him that there was a spot, so sexily named the 'urethral sponge', that surrounded the clitoral nerve and that the two were closely interconnected. Doctors weren't clear whether stimulation of the clit also stimulated the urethral sponge, or whether stimulation of 'the sponge' stimulated the clit, or whether it was a mutual relationship too combined to take apart and analyze. There was plenty of healthy debate, too, over whether or not the urethral sponge was, in all actuality, the near-mythical g-spot. In any event, I had ever so graciously agreed to a little experimentation and we both quickly found out that Jake's confident fingers pressing and brushing against that particular spot _totally did it for me_._

"_Ah...um..." I cleared my throat and tried desperately to keep from rolling my hips across Dean's cupped palm. "What I meant...was...what...ooooh," my lips pressed hungrily against the soft, salty skin of his neck as my body bucked suddenly with the overwhelming pleasure that flooded every extremity of my body._

"_What, baby?" his voice purred into my hair and so fucking help me, I just wanted him to bend me over the nearest _anything_ and fuck me senseless._

"_Aaah...I mean...what...what have you guys...mmmm...been...doing..." I stuttered shamelessly through my words as Dean's single finger slowly massaged that little spot inside of me._

"_Oh, that," his chuckle was dark and half-hidden into the curve of my own neck, as he bent his lips down toward the soft slope of my jaw. "We had to go back in. Now we're 'red tags'," I felt him smirk against my skin and I wanted to tell him that being labeled an escapee was not the way to go about one's penal career; but, well, I was almost incapable of thought at this point. "Anyway. Sam and I promptly got thrown into confinement, but not before our demonic friend decided to make an appearance."_

_I was barely hanging onto his words; the sensations he was building up inside of me were almost more than I could bear. My hips rode against his hand – and his crotch – without any input from my mind; my mouth was open and panting hard against his neck. The stubble from his jaw – it'd been a few days since he had shaved, by the feel of it – rubbed a pleasant rash against the underside of my chin as he spoke. I was practically melting into him and the hard, achingly gorgeous length of his body was pressed sinfully into my pliant curves._

_Fuck._

"_Turns out it was a demon-possessed guard. Some poor guy named Barton."_

_I moaned, but I wasn't sure if it was because Barton had been a long-time and much-loved friend of mine, or because Dean had slowly withdrawn his curling, probing finger from inside of me._

"_He got me good, before your dad could intervene. Turns out, your old man's pretty damn good with disguises. Said he'd worked for military intelligence back in the day or some sort of super secret squirrel spy thing like that. He was impersonating the second guard who was escorting us to confinement and had that demon bastard tied up in the cell next to mine in no time. Did the exorcism himself and everything, since Sam and I were knocked out."_

_A deep blush crept up over my skin; I could feel it burning from the pierced tips of my breasts, to the smooth curve of my cheeks. If what Dean was saying was true, then the first dream I'd shared with him had happened at that time – while my father took out a demon on his own a few yards and one wall away._

_I prayed desperately that it wasn't the wall that I'd tossed my head back against, when Dean had driven me wild with his tongue. Dream or no dream...that was embarrassing._

_Dean's fingers still slid and slipped between my folds, but my core ached the for the feel of him inside of me. I sighed heavily, forcing myself not to moan in wanton need. Why was he talking so damn much?_

"_Strangely – but luckily – enough, Barton survived his possession. Unfortunately, he doesn't remember a damn thing. So, we're still stuck with the fact that we have no perpetrator to hand over to the sheriff or the attorneys. The knucklehead that hates your dad is convinced that your disappearance equals involvement – if only for our 'escape'. He's got a few key players in the law quite convinced that you're at least part of a 'conspiracy'. So, we've solved your dad's problem at the prison. Not so much the fact that you're still a wanted criminal."_

_I did moan, but not at all because of what Dean had been saying. As he'd uttered his last words, he'd slid _two _big fingers into me. Fingers that immediately went for that spongy spot; the sensations that rolled through me were now twice as intense as they'd been before. I was practically fucking his fingers now._

"_Guess we're still stuck with ya'," his tone was teasing and I could not for the life of me understand how he was still coherent._

_His teeth slid over my neck, before latching slowly against the slight bulge of my muscle where they met my shoulder. His fingers stopped stroking my g-spot (because, seriously, I wasn't going to call it by its textbook name, even if g-spot wasn't technically correct), and all of my senses rushed to greet the incredible feeling of his lips and teeth sucking hard at my skin. I totally lost it and started writhing uncontrollably against him, not caring that I were squirming over the all-too prominent bulge of his erect cock, which was pressed tightly against both his zipper and my belly._

"_I-if y-ou're g-gonna k-keep m-m-m-m-e," I finally sputtered as he let go of me and leaned his head back to eye his handiwork (which would most certainly darken into a Dean-mouth-sized hickey). "T-then y-ou've g-gotta l-l-l-et m-e d-do s-s-s-s-" my breath hissed as Dean's tongue slowly laved the bruised skin that he had bitten. "S-something," I finally squeaked._

"_You mean like, come?"_

Three_ fingers abruptly thrust upward, bypassing that spot I so desperately wanted him to coax until my body spun apart. I still howled in pleasure, though, as the heel of his hand pounded against the swollen flesh between my legs with the force of his thrusts. His rough, insistent, dominant fucking of me drove my breasts up and down against his chest, drove my clit up and against the ridge of his jeans-bound cock. My head rolled back against his shoulder and my mouth fell open with a silent scream; my eyes stayed open, although barely, and I watched with a mixture of amazement and lust, as his face darkened with sheer sexual need._

_Fuck. He liked this just as much as I did._

"_Sorry, sweetheart," he withdrew his fingers as forcefully and as suddenly as he'd started thrusting them in. "You gotta' wait. Just a few days, though," I watched, helpless and mesmerized, as he lifted his hand toward his mouth. "We're heading back."_

_I couldn't have torn my eyes away even if I had wanted to (which I didn't, because what woman in her right mind would?). I watched, wide-eyed and inexplicably turned-on, as Dean slowly licked each of the three fingers that had coated themselves in my liquid heat. He made one hell of a show of it, too, watching me with hooded eyes, his tongue darting out and curling around each digit, sucking each long length between his teeth and dragging his lips across each as he licked them clean. The last finger he let go of with a soft pop and he made a deep, satisfied noise deep in his throat._

"_You're fucking delicious. I could eat you all day," that thrice-damned, crooked smile curved up the left corner of his lips and I just whimpered, too wound up and too desperate to do anything else but pant and stare._

_His next words made me moan – a ragged, torn, and needy sound._

"_I have to admit, I'm curious to see what you taste like after I've filled you up."_

_I had never before, in the whole course of my sexual life, been more glad for an IUD. I'd gotten one in the military, when Jake and I had decided that kids weren't something we wanted. I didn't want the hassle of the pill, I hated the idea of the shot, and patches were out of the question. There was no need for condoms in a married life as far as I was concerned, so an IUD had been the perfect choice. I still had it, too, even after Jake's death. Better safe than sorry, and it wasn't like I ever noticed it was there._

_I was clean. I'd have to make sure Dean was, too. And if he was, so help me, YES. I loved the feel of a man coming inside of me – it always made me come, too – and I had a sneaking suspicion that a man as...well-built...as Dean would be felt most exquisitely, deep and hard._

_And the thought of him tasting me after the two of us had come together...just...fuck. What was a woman supposed to do with such a fucking, mind-blowingly sexy thought?_

"_Guess I will have to tell Cas to drop by," Dean continued, as cool as ever, as if he hadn't just acknowledged the flash of intense desire that had flashed across my entirely too expressive face; I had no clue who "Cas" was, but I was beyond giving a damn._

_His face turned mischievous and playful; his fingers were no longer playing with me and I was as unsatisfied as the last time we'd met in the dreamworld, but the feeling of his fingers sliding firmly up and down my back beneath his own shirt was comforting. I thought he was going to leave it at that, but then he dipped his head until his lips were inches away from mine. My breath hitched and my eyes fluttered closed in anticipation._

_I shouldn't have assumed. Dean Winchester was the fucking master of The Unbearable Tease. His lips ghosted mine, but instead of a hot, wet, long kiss, all I got were words:_

"_I really hope like hell that you don't have a cat. I hate cats. They remind me of fucking Crowley."_

* * *

><p><p>

I had absolutely no clue who Crowley was – the King of Hell, I thought I'd heard Sam say at some point? The name did sound familiar – but I also couldn't say that I cared. Dean had drawn my body to the edge for a second time and I wanted absolutely nothing so badly as release. "Just a few days" was entirely too vague for my liking. I woke up on the couch and thought that I would simply wither away with longing – longing for Dean's broad, muscled body on top of mine, his mouth hot against mine, his hands fondling my pierced nipples, and his deliciously hard cock pounding an ancient rhythm inside of my body.

I thought briefly about exploring the contents of his bed side table drawer...and perhaps other drawers inside of his small room, but thought better of it. Maybe I could get behind this game he played after all. I knew, with the instincts of a sexually experienced adult woman, that holding out for Dean would be far better than any release I could give to myself. So, yeah. I'd play his little game. But only for the anticipation of that mind-blowing orgasm that was sure to overpower us both.

Since I didn't know when this mysterious "Cas" would show up, I decided to haul myself off of the couch and find some pants. Mr. Pibbles was still loaf-boxing in his towels, fast asleep, so I let him be and moved toward the kitchen to jot down a grocery list and to pull a pair of Dean's sweatpants out of the laundry basket that was _still _on top of the island counter-top. My body still hummed, still sang, with the memory of Dean's fingers dancing inside of me and when I paused to take stock of my body, I realized that I even felt a little sore from the way he'd pounded into me at the end.

Damn him to hell. I'd been so _close_. So close. My lower belly ached just at the thought.

I grumbled a bit to myself and pulled out a pair of shorts. My eyebrows rose a bit as I contemplated them; they were made out of the same soft material as sweatpants, but stopped right about the knee. Since I wasn't bothered by the cold anymore, I decided it might be a more feasible choice for moving around the Bunker in and tried them on. On me, the shorts fell _below_ the knee, but not by much. They were loose and comfy, though, which was all I cared about. I considered myself in the fridge's cloudy steel door; at best, I was a hazy outline in the reflection, but I could at least consider my appearance in the button-up shirt and shorts. The gray shorts were just a little bit longer than the blue-checkered shirt, but not by much. I rolled the shirt sleeves up on both sides, as they'd been slowly falling down over the course of the day. I was barefoot, my hair was a little bit messy, and all in all, I thought I didn't look too bad.

"Meh...the only male in the house is Mr. Pibbles, anyway, so it didn't much matter what I look like," I talked thoughtfully to my reflection as I turned my body and examined myself from another angle. "I could run around naked, for as much as anyone would care."

"That would be rather uncomfortable to walk in on. I would not recommend it," an unfamiliar, raspy voice made me jump with a little squeak of fear.

"Who the fuck are you?" my hand immediately flew toward the nearest long-handled, cast-iron pan, that was hanging from the rack above the island.

"Cas," a sad-eyed, black-haired man looked at me pensievely; his shoulders were slightly hunched inside of a blue gas-station smock and plain white shirt. "Dean said I would find you here...Officer...Remington?"

I blinked at him, my arm still stretched above my head, my fingers clutched hard around the handle of the skillet I had blindly chosen at random. My heart thundered, but my gut told me instinctively that this man was who he said he was and that he posed no threat to me.

"Yeah," I replied slowly. "That was fast."

"Dean called about 30 minutes ago," Cas shrugged casually, his hands stuck inside of the pockets of his slightly-rumpled khaki pants. "I work only a few miles away and he called just as I was finishing my shift," he paused and frowned slightly. "You left the Bunker door unlocked. I wouldn't do that, if I were you. Anything could come in."

"Oh," I eyed him again and finally let go of the skillet. "Well...uh...I'll remember that. Uh...and...uh...hi," feeling awkward and at a total loss of how to appropriately respond to his unexpected presence (and a little unsettled to find out that I had forgotten to secure the Bunker after bringing Mr. Pibbles in), I stuck my hand out toward him. "I'm Kelly. Nice to meet you."

"Cas," he looked at my hand in something like surprise, before reaching out and taking my fingers firmly between his.

Little did I know then, that I had just met the harbinger of my fate.


	5. Problem, Girl

"_I'm your dream girl;  
>This is real love,<br>But you know what they say about me…  
>That girl is a problem,<br>Girl is a problem,  
>Girl is a problem, problem.<br>Oh, Baby,  
>You so bad, boy;<br>Drive me mad, boy,  
>But you don't care when they say about me…<br>That girl is a problem,  
>Girl is a problem,<br>Girl is a problem, problem."_

"**Problem Girl"**

**Natalia Kills**

* * *

><p>"Dean explained your situation to me; I do not approve of you leaving the Bunker," Cas glowered at the slushy road in front of us. "It is the safest place for you, considering your circumstances."<p>

I sat in the passenger seat and practically smooshed my nose against the cold window to my right. I was out of the Bunker and it was glorious.

"Yeah, well," I shrugged and glanced over at Cas slyly, a smile tugging up the corners of my mouth. "You were the one who agreed to come pick me up."

"Dean is…persuasive," the angel muttered toward his steering wheel. "And I owe him."

I giggled, when his eyes refused to meet mine. Cas was surprisingly adorable; he hadn't told me anything about himself, but there was this air of undeniable _goodness_ about him. Something..._pure_, almost. He was clearly loyal to Dean, if he was taking me out to Lawrence against his own better judgment. Cas had a fair point, so the acquiescence to Dean's wishes spoke volumes.

It was that – his willingness to answer to Dean's call so quickly and so unquestioningly – that convinced me that Cas wasn't a threat in the slightest. As a result, I had relaxed into the leather seats of our hilariously out-dated ride and had allowed myself to be more intrigued by the landscape outside than the man driving beside me.

Of course, my thoughts wandered to Dean. A part of me wanted a casual fling – a passing fancy that wouldn't require any commitment from either one of us. But...that was a hope that could never exist between Dean and me. There was no such thing as a casual fling with Dean Winchester – it might have been a reality for him, but not for me. And...truth be told, I wanted to be the one to ride Dean right to the end.

Pun intended.

"Dean is quite taken with you," Cas seemed to sense something of my thoughts and I glanced at him with sharp alarm.

He continued to stare resolutely forward, his hands at 11 and 2 on the steering wheel, and if he had gathered something of my other thoughts, he showed no indication of it. I eyed him carefully, secretly marveling at how perceptive the man must have been to read my face (I thought nothing of it, really, since I had always had a terrible poker face; anyone with any intuitive whatsoever could easily read my thoughts when I had my guard down).

"I'm sure Dean gets taken with the ladies every chance he gets," I replied with forced indifference.

My thoughts steered dangerously toward my dream-memories of Dean – the memory of his breath against my cheek, the memory of his fingers deep inside of me, still fresh in the forefront of my mind. Oh, my; I couldn't go an hour, it seemed, without thinking of those thrice-damned dreams we'd shared. I sighed deeply and squirmed a bit in my seat. I refused to look toward Cas and stared – now unseeing – at the fallow winter fields flickering past us.

"…That is quite true of Dean," Cas continued, blissfully ignorant of my thoughts this time around (I hoped). "But, it is most unlike him to ignore women who are throwing themselves at him."

This did catch my attention and I turned my head abruptly to capture Cas in an intense (and puzzled) gaze.

"What are you getting at?" my brows furrowed heavily.

"I mean that Dean and I are close friends with a long history and I know how he acts when a woman has caught his fancy. I'd be willing to bet that he has showed no interest in any of the women he's encountered during this hunt," Cas replied passively, his left hand moving only to press the turn signal down, as we slowed to a stop in front of our first red light. "And from talking to him over the phone, he seems unusually eager to return to the Bunker."

I was momentarily speechless, but that only lasted for as long as it took for the light to turn. As the car rolled smoothly toward the left, I found my voice and managed (miraculously) not to sound like a breathless schoolgirl.

"I'm pretty sure he's fixated – _if_ he _is_ actually fixated – because I haven't fallen into bed with him yet," my retort was dry and I turned to glare out the window again.

"Perhaps," Cas seemed completely unaffected by my scathing insinuation. "Dean does become quite single-minded in the course of pursuit."

I sighed heavily and Cas thankfully didn't ask why. We fell into silence again and I tried to force myself to think of anything at all except an eager, single-minded Dean.

I tried to focus on the incredible luck of getting to go into town. I was lucky in the sense that I'd been able to overcome Dean's more rational inclinations, but when I'd tried to explain to Dean what I needed, he'd easily given up trying to relay second-hand information. Dean had called shortly after Cas had met me in the kitchen and he'd seemed quite okay with the thought of telling Cas to go to a grocery store. But Dean and Cas both had helplessly flailed when considering my list of pet supplies.

"Hay?" Cas'd asked, the phone I'd handed to him cradled between his shoulder and his cheek, confusion written all over his face. "Rabbit…pellets?" he'd then looked up at me, his blue eyes beseeching. "What _is_ this?"

I'd put my finger to my lips and quietly guided him into the common room. We hovered over the back of the couch and the lines in Cas' stern face had softened at the sight of a sleeping Mr. Pibbles. He seemed to understand quite perfectly at that point what I was asking for…but there was still the matter of finding such things.

To put it bluntly, Cas had no freakin' clue where to begin; it would seem that he was fairly new to Lawrence and didn't know the lay of the land. He also, apparently, hadn't ever owned pets; even when Dean explained to him where to find the local pet store, Cas had still complained about not understanding what _any _of the items on my list were_. _Trying to explain was quickly abandoned; he simply had no concept of pet ownership, much less any knowledge about caring for another animal. Dean, Cas, and I had all ended up frustrated with one another and it was, at that point, that I had suggested that I accompany him into town.

Dean and Cas had understandably bulked at the idea, but as we argued quietly over the phone (still standing over the couch and passing it between each other to talk to Dean), Cas' azure gaze kept drifting toward the soundly snoozing bunny below us. Finally, he huffed and shrugged his shoulders – a gesture of defeat if ever there was one.

"This small creature she's found does indeed need the supplies necessary to make it comfortable," he had sighed heavily into the phone to Dean. "I can figure it out."

There was a brief pause as Dean answered back; Cas then frowned and handed me the phone.

"At least disguise yourself," Dean had conceded with considerable misgiving heavy in his voice and I could have hugged him for joy. "Tell Cas to just go with it. If we send him by himself, he'll come back with a can of fish food, or something equally ridiculous."

And that's how I now found myself, sitting in the passenger seat of his enormous land-boat of a car, and staring out at the brick buildings of Lawrence, Kansas. I personally thought my disguise was rather convincing – or, at least, convincing enough to do the trick. My long hair was tucked up as neatly as possible beneath one of Bobby's old trucker caps and a pair of black, thick-framed glasses perched on my nose (a contribution from a drawer in the shared showers on the ground level; I'd discovered them a few weeks before, while searching for a new tube of toothpaste). I was wearing Dean's navy blue hoodie (which fit the best out of anything else of his) and a pair of the distressed denim jeans Sam had bought for me. My entire ensemble was rounded out with my old work boots; all-in-all, I thought I could sufficiently pass for a local farmer's daughter.

I had every intention of milking this experience for all that it was worth. I also planned to grab some supplies to further improve my disguise – like hair clippers and hair dye. I pondered what color I should choose as we eased into a Wal-Mart parking space. My hair was a dirty blond, like Dean's, but lighter than his, especially when I spent a lot of time in the sun.

"This place worries me," Cas eyed the building across from us with considerable apprehension; I stifled a laugh.

"Trust me, there's plenty of jokes about people who shop at Wal-Mart – whole websites, even," I chattered along, excited by the prospect of getting out and stretching my legs. "But, that works to our advantage. There's less chance of us being memorable."

Cas made a noise in the back of his throat – of disapproval or acquiescence, I wasn't sure – and what counted as a conversation with the oddly-intense man died completely as we got out of the car and walked toward the produce entrance on the left. Cas was shorter than even Dean (although, not by much), but still a good head taller than me, so I had to practically trot along at his side to keep up with his longer strides. His face was fixed in what was a universally recognized expression of concentration and I had to stifle a sigh as I realized that, with Cas in tow, there would be no lingering about between the shelves. His pace made it quite clear that he intended to "get in, get out" as quickly as possible.

I still managed to have a good time, though. As it turned out, he could, in fact, be persuaded to shop around a bit. I hadn't had time to create a specific meal plan (which was how I usually planned my grocery shopping), but as we made our way through the produce section and subsequent aisles, I started grabbing things that I knew I could use to make simple meals. And, I doubled everything, because men. Sam, alone, at like a moose – with at least three mouths to feed, I wasn't taking any chances. This seemed to exasperate Cas, who kept looking at the list in his hands and then at the growing pile of food in the shopping cart.

"That's not on the list," he finally protested, when I grabbed two big packs of chicken breasts.

"Dean says they'll be back in a few days, so at this point, I'm not just shopping for myself," I replied without thinking.

As soon as the words left my mouth, though, I realized what I had said. My teeth snapped together as I clenched my jaw and glanced nervously at Cas, who was eyeing me thoughtfully. I hoped like hell that he wasn't as close friends with Dean so as to know about the _entirety _of my situation. Like, how I didn't have a phone.

"How did you know that?" his dark brows wrinkled tightly together. "He didn't even say as much to me."

"Yeah, well..." I shrugged as we wandered down another aisle.

I threw a family pack of macaroni-and-cheese into the shopping cart before reluctantly replying, hoping to play off my slip-up.

"He just sort of casually mentioned it in passing while I was on the phone with him. Probably so I'd know how much to get, grocery-wise and all."

I decided it was easier to cope if I didn't look at Cas, so I took a deep breath and made a beeline for the milk and eggs at the back of the store. Castiel followed me with the gentle rattle of the cart wheels on tile.

"You're lying," he said after a long, uncomfortable pause.

"Can't prove it," I snapped over my shoulder as I opened the commercial refrigerator door and reached for a gallon of 2% moo juice.

"No," he pursed his lips and nodded in agreement. "But...you have a lot of secrets, don't you, Ms. Remington?"

He watched me place the gallon in the cart and then glanced up at me, his eyes so wide and piercing that I imagined, for just a moment, that they belonged to a soul far older than his body let on. His gaze was...ancient...for lack of a better word and the thought made me fidget uncomfortably.

"Not that it's any of your business," my voice dropped to a ragged whisper and I looked down at the overflowing cart – anywhere, really, to avoid looking at Cas. "But, yeah. Maybe I do."

"You've seen war," he replied simply; I could feel him staring hard at me and in surprise, I lifted my head and looked at him piercingly from below the rim of Bobby's old cap.

"What makes you say that?" my voice was dark.

"I might not look like it now," Cas sighed heavily, as we continued to stare at each over the cart, blocking at least two doors of the fridge. "But, I'm a soldier myself. I know the look of a soul that's seen war."

"Does that make you any more sympathetic to my alleged lying?" I bristled, unsettled by his uncanny observations.

"No," Cas shook his head slowly; his expression turned compassionate and I thought my heart might suddenly break from the look in his suddenly shadowed eyes. "But, it does mean I'll respect your secrets, for now. As long as you mean no danger to the Winchesters, or to Bobby."

"None whatsoever," I answered immediately, the conviction of my sincerity making my words heavy like a promise between us. "Never."

* * *

><p>Cas and I didn't talk at all after that, except to explain to him after checking out of Wal-Mart and loading our bags in the trunk of his car, that I still needed to drop by a pet store, since Wal-Mart hadn't carried what I needed. He obliged and we walked into the store together; me hunched as far as I could go inside of my hoodie and he with his hands shoved into the pockets of his khakis. We made quite the pathetic pair, I thought, as I watched our reflection in the glass of the store's sliding front doors.<p>

More weirdness happened. I was drifting through the small animal section, eyeing cages, pens and pet gates. Just as I reached out a hand to grab a cheap plywood-and-plastic gate, I heard a prim little voice in my head.

_I think not._

I paused and blinked stupidly at the display in front of me. Was...was that Mr. Freakin' Pibbles in my head?

_Quite._

He had an adorably dorky British accent. How the heck.

_I am your familiar. You can hear my thoughts and I can hear yours._

Trippy. I shook my head in silent amazement. There was a part of me that just wanted to reject what was happening, that just wanted to block Mr. Pibbles from my mind. But...in some ways, it was kind of cool. And considering everything else I was capable of, what was one more freaky 'gift'?

I wondered absently if I was a witch. Didn't witches have familiars?

_They do, but they are not the only ones. You are far, far more than a simple witch._

Okay. What the fuck. How did a rabbit that I had met just hours before know _anything_ about who I was?

_Because I am as ancient as you and I have turned the Wheel with you in ages before._

What. The. Fuck.

Flustered, I glanced over at Castiel, who was frowning intensely at a display of cat towers, as if he had never seen such things before. I didn't have time to puzzle over Cas' seeming inability to grasp perfectly normal things – it was enough to see that he wasn't staring at me funny, while I was having a conversation _in my own head_.

So...back the to the rabbit. What the fuck did he mean by "as ancient as you"? I was barely 30 years old – I was hardly ancient.

_Your vessel isn't_, Mr. Pibs chimed in blithely.

Vessel? What the fuck was a _vessel_? I glanced down at my shirt and pants, and shook my head. Okay, Mr. Freaky Bunny. I was not having this conversation.

_Suit yourself,_ the British-ness fairly oozed from Mr. Pibbles' telepathic voice. _But for the record, please don't bother getting me anything except a few nice pillows to sleep on and some litter boxes. And some thing to chew on. I am not an ordinary rabbit and I do not need to be treated as one._

La te da. I snorted at the rabbit's sauciness and rolled my eyes. There wasn't anything else to do, though, except to turn to Cas – who had moved on to contemplate the greater mysteries of cat nip – and get us moving out of the store as quickly as possible.

"Hey, Cas! I'm going to go get Mr. Pibbles some food. Go grab some cheap cat litter boxes, would you?."

Castiel didn't move, as he pondered my instructions.

"Cat litter boxes?"

"Oh my god," I moaned and rolled my eyes a second time. "Did you grow up in a cult, or something?" I turned and pointed toward the aisle across from us. "Over there."

I then turned sharply on my heel, marched out of our aisle and around to the next one. I left Cas to figure out where the litter boxes were – or hell, _what_ they were – on his own. I was suddenly and very irrationally angry; I wanted nothing more than to punch something.

I could heal with a touch of my hand. The cold and the heat no longer bothered me. I had an unspeakable yearning to feel the wind in my hair and the snow against my cheeks. I had lucid dreams, from which I could apparently affect reality, if the hand prints on my thighs after this most recent one was any indication. I could sense the primal nature of people and animals, by simply passing them by. I had a _familiar_ and he spoke to me _telepathically_.

Was I even human? I wondered darkly as I stared – unseeing – at the neatly stacked rows of rabbit food. I had a brand in mind, but between Castiel and Mr. Pibs, I was at a loss. I just stood there for several long moments, trying to collect my cool.

That's when Weird Incident Number Two happened.

"Fuddled a bit, love?"

At first, I thought it was Mr. Pibbles...but then I realized that the British voice now emanated from behind me and not in my head. It was also different from my familiar's, rougher and deeper. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I reluctantly turned my head. The man standing behind me was short, only a few inches or so taller than me, but stocky. Not in a "too-much-around-the-middle" sort of stocky, either, but in a distinctly "I'll-kick-your-ass" sort of stocky way.

There was danger in him and darkness. I was instantly on my guard.

"I'm cool," I forced myself to stand my ground and not lean away from him.

He was entirely too close for the comfort of my PTSD. He smelled a little like smoke and something else that reminded me forcefully of sulfur. And because life just worked this way, he was also good-looking. I couldn't quite tell if his beard was an actual beard, or a case of scruff gone wild, but he wore it well. He had short dark hair, hazel-y eyes, and a sarcastic smirk tugging along the edges of his weathered lips.

I squinted at him, poised on flight or fight.

"You sure, love?" he leaned slowly in toward me and the scent of fire filled my nose.

I gritted my teeth and stood my ground. My own primal instincts intuitively recognized the challenge being made, one alpha to another.

"Pretty fucking sure," I couldn't help a growl – lady-like tones be damned.

"You look a little..." his eyes traveled the curves of my face and I did not at all appreciate the leer that settled deep within his gaze. "Flushed."

"What do you want?" I decided to bring my inner correctional officer to bear; I felt a flash of incandescent rage when he simply rocked back on his heels and laughed at me.

"I like you," he raised a finger and waved it casually in my face; I snarled, my lips pulling back from my teeth from pure instinct. "You're different than the others, love."

"What. Do. You. Want?" I repeated slowly, attenuated each syllable with a brittle precision.

"Just checking out the competition," his wide mouth curled up in a devilish smile.

I didn't have anything witty to ground out in response to that. To be honest, his reply took me by surprise. Competition? What competition? Surely, he didn't mean me.

"Ta-ta for now, love," he lifted his right hand and waggled his fingers at me.

He turned to leave, but not before tossing a lewd wink and smirk my way. Oh, and a pointed barb that further confused the hell out of me.

"Tell Squirrel that I like that hoodie _so_ much better on you than him."

With that, he turned around the corner of the aisle and I nearly choked on the rotten stench of sulfur. Questions tumbled and tripped in my head, as I finally motivated my feet to move haltingly forward. I turned the corner...and nothing. I stared down an empty row, aquarium supplies stocked to my right and fish food to my right.

The bastard had vanished. Literally. I'd never seen such a thing. Who the hell was that man? How did he know Dean Winchester? And why the fuck was I "competition"?

* * *

><p>Cas dropped me off at the Bunker forty-five minutes later. He helped me carry the groceries and pet supplies up to the second floor; we deposited the food on the kitchen counter and Mr. Pibbles' necessaries just beside the doorway of the common room. Neither one of us spoke and I certainly didn't tell him about the random British dude in the pet store. Some gut feeling told me that Cas wasn't the one to share that encounter with. Not initially, anyway.<p>

Cas left after helping me put the groceries away. Before trotting down the stairs and out the double steel doors, he paused and locked his soulful blue eyes with my amber-colored ones.

"Be well, Kelly," his voice was gravely and comforting.

His hand, even more so. He placed his open palm gently on the top of my head, as if bestowing a blessing, or a prayer. My heart did a funny little lurch when he stepped away – his fingers lingered for just a second. I had taken Bobby's hat off and shaken out my hair; a few of my loose strands tangled themselves in his calloused, hunting-weathered hands. Cas had called himself a soldier and I could see that in him now, could feel it in his almost-wistful touch.

Soldiers treasured quiet moments, treasured friendships and loyalties, treasured brighter souls who weren't quite as ravaged by death. I knew Cas was taking a moment, perhaps to bless me, or perhaps to feel the silk of my hair against his skin. Perhaps, he did both, perhaps one lead to the other as organically as one's emotions unfurled to deeper, richer possibilities. In that moment, I realized that Cas wasn't as "safe" as I had thought.

His knuckles brushed the curve of my cheek; I couldn't help but lean into it. Cas' tender touch could break my heart as readily as Dean Winchester's unbridled passion. If given time, I could fall for this dark-haired soldier who shared my weariness of war, as easily as I could for the light-haired hunter who was heading back to claim me.

Oh, what tangled webs were weaving.

* * *

><p>At about midnight, I finally decided it was time to go to bed. Rabbits were normally nocturnal, so I grabbed one of the new litter boxes, some puffy recycled paper bedding, two bowls for food and water, and called to Pibs.<p>

"C'mon, fluff-ball. Time for bed."

Pibs could be chatty when he wanted to be, but I was discovering that mostly, he was a rather quiet bun. Of course, it could be that he sensed my desire to completely ignore everything that had happened that day and was graciously respecting it. I had never had a telepathic familiar before, so I really didn't know what he could sense and what he couldn't. Silent, we started to trudge up the stairs to the Bunker's top floor, but before we could turn into the first doorway across from the landing, I heard an unfamiliar voice echo up from the main floor.

"Kelly?" the voice inquired hesitantly. "Kelly Remington?"

The voice was a strong, clear tenor, and sounded surprisingly _young_. I blinked and froze dead in my tracks – I wasn't expecting any further visitors after Cas had left.

"Hey, Kelly? Dean said you might try to...like...hit me with a frying pan or something. But...uh...I'm Kevin Tran and Bobby sent me..." the voice moved closer; by the echoing, I figured the person attached to said voice had moved up to the mezzanine.

I wracked my brain for information about the Bunker that I'd gleaned from eavesdropping on conversations between Dean and Sam. If I remembered correctly, it was warded soundly against _everything_ that went bump in the night – demons, vampires, angels, the list went on. I had locked the Bunker door behind Cas, too, on his insistence, so if anyone was in here, then they had to have a key to the place.

My heart thundered in my throat as I edged cautiously toward the top of the stairs.

"If Bobby really sent you...then you should be able to call him up," I tried to keep my voice steady as I peered down at the shadowy landing below me. "I want to hear his voice."

"O-okay," the voice below me sounded just as nervous as I did; there was the tell-tale beep-beep-beep of pressing phone numbers and then a steady ring rang through the desperately quiet air.

Whoever was below me, was moving steadily closer to the landing. He'd also put his phone on speaker, since I could hear it quite clearly when the phone picked up on the other end.

"Yeah?" Bobby's rough voice filled the air and I could feel a rush of relief flood through my lungs. "Kelly givin' ya' a hard time?"

"Yeah..." the young man's voice trailed away as he rounded the corner at the foot of the stairs and stopped to stare up at me.

He was a good-looking young man with shaggy black hair, pensive dark eyes, a smooth face that any woman would kill for. We eyed each other warily.

"Hey, Kelly!" Bobby's voice yelled from the bright-lit phone in Kevin's slightly shaking hand. "Don't be an idjit! I called Kevin when we left the Bunker – he's been to your parents' house to pick up some stuff for ya'. I sent him, 'cuz he doesn't have any ties to your family like me and the Winchesters do."

I finally relaxed and started down the stairs, my movements still wary – an unfortunate side effect of war.

"Thanks, Bobby," I said clearly, enunciating carefully, so he could understand me. "I just wanted to make sure, y'know?"

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled back at me, but there was a note of approval in his voice that warmed the very center of my chest. "Now if you two don't mind, Imma' gonna' go back to bed."

The phone call dropped just as Kevin was working a "good night, Bobby" out of his mouth. With the call ended, the two of us returned to starting uneasily at each other.

"Uh...Kevin," he made the first move and held out his hand.

"Kelly," I took it and we exchanged a firm shake, all the while sizing each other up.

"I...uh...brought some stuff from your home. I left it by the kitchen...lemme go grab it..." he turned and beat a hasty retreat around the corner before I could stop him long enough to let him know that I would gladly accompany him.

He sure did seem like a nervous young thing – if it wasn't for the unmistakable voice of Bobby responding to us from the other side of Kevin's fancy phone, I would probably have tried to tie him up for the boys to handle later. I was still considering the possibility of knocking him over the head and locking him into a room until Dean, Sam, and Bobby got back – I wasn't sure how to take this sudden change of events and that made me disinclined to trust Kevin's unannounced presence.

Before I could move forward and follow him around the corner, Kevin puffed and puffed into view, dragging a heavy-looking suitcase. I froze, finally believing that maybe the young man wasn't blowing smoke up my ass. He was dragging dad's old khaki-and-OD-green suitcase and I could feel tears beginning to prick at the corners of my eyes.

"Hear ya' go," Kevin shyly handed me the suitcase handle. "Oh, and this," he fished around in his jacket pocket for a second, before pulling out a slightly wrinkled white envelope.

I took both from him with a trembling jaw and a few traitorous sniffles. Kevin now looked _completely_ out of his element, but he smiled as genuinely as he could under the circumstances.

"I'll...uh...well...guess you could call the Bunker a second-home, so I'll go sleep on the couch downstairs, if that doesn't weird you out."

I shook my head, eyes glued to the white envelope in my hands.

"Okay...well...night," Kevin didn't stick around after that.

He shot me a curious, uncertain look over his shoulder as he turned to go, but when I didn't respond, he just sighed a little bit to himself and promptly trotted out of view. He left me with that blasted envelope and a suitcase full of memories; I didn't even give a second thought to the fact that I now had a strange teen-age boy in the Bunker with me; I just turned around, as if on autopilot, and trudged up the stairs to the sanctuary of my room.

* * *

><p>Once I shut and locked my bedroom door behind me, I nearly dropped Mr. Pibbles' necessaries on top of him in the jumbled rush of my emotions.<p>

"Sorry buddy," I gasped at him as I dumped all his stuff unceremoniously onto the floor by the bed. "I'll get to you in a minute, I promise."

_Take your time, _Pibs replied graciously; he promptly made himself at home on the old rag rug at my feet and stretched out his back legs in a pose of complete relaxation.

My fingers shook as I turned the envelope over in my hands. I was prepared to promptly forget about my familiar, when his little tenor voice spoke softly in my head.

_Why don't you sit on the floor with me? Such things are always better shared with a friend at your side._

Tears pricked the corner of my eyes; it seemed silly to be touched by a five-pound ball of fluff, but I was. A friend was precisely what I needed right now, so I offered no resistance at Mr. Pibbles' suggestion. I turned my back to the bed and slid down next to him; I curled my legs up under me Indian-style and slowly slid my thumb under the corner of the envelope's closed flap. There was a sudden warmth and tender pressure on my thigh, as Pibs stood up, hopped over, and laid his head on my thigh. As soon as I had opened the envelope and pulled out the piece of lined paper inside, my free hand automatically smoothed the ruffled fur on the top of Pibs' head. We sat like that – Mr. Pibbles warm against my skin (I was dressed only in one of Dean's shirts again) and my fingers tangled gently in his fur.

_Hey, Princess, _the letter began and the words became blurry for a moment as I recognized my father's handwriting.

_I had hoped to talk to you in person, but it doesn't look like we'll get the chance any time soon. A lovely young man named Kevin is here with us at your place (Bobby apparently sent him along), helping your mother gather up your favorite things. So, I guess we'll have to talk this way._

_I'm sorry about everything that has happened. Dean and Sam Winchester are the best in the business; when a demon started stalking my prison and killing my guards, I had to do something. I needed the best. Perhaps I shouldn't have done the things I did in the way that I did them, but hindsight is 20-20. I regret nothing, except for dragging you into this mess._

"Ah, Dad," I pulled my hand away from Pibs and ran my fingers roughly across my eyes. "It's not your fault. I was a dumbass. I shouldn't have left my dorm."

_The state Inspector General is hell-bent on pinning quite of lot of what's gone down on you. I don't doubt that you remember Will Scathelocke? Well, he's the new IG and he's been a continual pain in my ass all year. I knew that was going to happen, but he's taken our old grudge to a whole new level. He's trying to accuse you of conspiracy, fleeing and evading, and involvement in a prison break. I have no fucking clue how Scathelocke plan to substantiate any of these claims, but it's making things dangerous for you around here. He's always been a charismatic, persuasive, manipulative little shit._

I couldn't help laughing through my tears – this was 100% Dad, right down the swearing like a sailor. God, I missed him.

_At the very least, your career as a correctional officer is over. At the very worst, you have a bunk waiting for you at LCI (if Scathelocke gets his way). I don't know where the Winchesters have hidden you and at this point, it's best if I don't. I trust them – they're both good men. Mostly. Just please, for the sake of our parental sanity, stay out of Dean's pants._

I snorted, my laughter growing stronger. Oh, if Dad only knew. He could smell trouble a mile away…and he knew damn well what my weakness were. And Dean Winchester played on every single one. I also appreciated the subtle way he phrased that last sentence, telling me to keep my hands off of Dean, not the other way around. The current situation had unsettled me deeply, so I hadn't been responding to a lot of things as I usually would – including my almost passive, submissive responses to Dean's heated advances. Were I not completely off kilter about the curve ball life had thrown me, Dad had pretty much nailed it – I would be the one pursuing Dean, not the other way around.

I_ can hear Kevin and your mother moving around near the stairs, so my time is almost up, I'm afraid. Princess…I know you're off your medicine and unfortunately, we can't really send that to you. We had to pick things that we knew wouldn't throw off a lot of alarms, should Scathelocke come snooping around here with a warrant. It's a safe assumption to assume that your missing medications would strongly suggest our involvement. Plus, you wouldn't be able to refill them and I checked – you've only got about a week left on all of them. Hang in there._

I was back to crying – over Dad's concern, his encouragement, or my own frustration, I didn't know. Mostly, it just hurt so fucking much to know that my parents even had to consider these sorts of things.

_I remember well what you were like before Iraq. I know that you're going to revert to your natural instincts, now that your medicine is gone. Don't fight it, baby girl. Embrace it. It's who you are and you need to stop fighting yourself. You are strong, and beautiful, and so very special. The blood of kings flows through you and for reasons I've never been able to explain, you've always possessed the powers of whatever god our ancestors had sworn their fealty to. You probably have no clue what I'm talking about, but I've included in your suitcase some old family heirlooms that I've kept hidden with all my old hunter gear. They should be able to shed some light on my cryptic-ness and maybe they can help solve the wonderful mystery that has always been you, too._

_Kevin and your mom are here in the kitchen now. Kevin has promised to be the bridge between us for now (at least, as much as he is able), while we weather this storm. I'll send another letter as soon as he shows up again, but know that it's unfortunately going to have to be on his schedule for the time being. Your mother sends her love. We miss you. I love you, Kelly. Be brave. Love, Dad._

I put the letter down and cried, heartbroken and desperately lonely. I fell asleep hours later, curled up on the rug, as Pibs gently licked the mess of tears from my cheeks.

* * *

><p>I slept most of the following day, exhausted in body, mind, and spirit. I briefly explored the contents of my suitcase – there were indeed all of my favorite clothes folded up inside. Skirts, dresses, blouses, shorts, jeans, sweaters, hats, scarves, boots – they all smelled like home and touching them, burying my face in them, was painfully bitter sweet. I cried again, when I unpacked a framed picture from my wedding day – Jake on my right side, Dad on my left, and Mom next to him. Then I pulled out a beat up, tanned denim, fleece-lined coat – I had never seen it before, but I knew instinctively, from its many-patched, slightly frayed, and beaten fabric that it had to be his old Hunting jacket. I buried my face into it and smelled Dad's pipe tobacco and the fainter touches of Mom's honeysuckle body spray. I cried myself to sleep a second time, clutching the jacket to my body with one hand and the picture in the other.<p>

I spent the day sitting on my rumpled bed, Mr. Pibbles at my side, any concern about my new housemate, Kevin, far removed from my mind, as I unpacked the memories of a happy home. I got up only once or twice, to slap a turkey sandwich together on Pibs' insistence that I needed to eat and to briefly stick my head in the library to let Kevin know I was still alive.

Inside of the suitcase, there was some of my most sentimental jewelry – including the pure silver Celtic cross that Dad had bought during our family trip to Ireland ten years or so ago. I immediately put it on and it hung heavy and reassuring against the hollow of my breasts. I had felt strange, bereft, and naked, without a necklace of some sort – the plain cross I had usually worn under my uniform had disappeared, probably torn from my neck during the attack I still couldn't recall.

There was my journal and my favorite collection of colored gel pens; my book of Celtic meditations; my Nook (bless you, Mom!); my back-up lap top, which wasn't my magnificently expensive gaming computer, but still reliable and working; my cherry red Dr. Dre headphones; my Oakley sunglasses. There was a small bag that revealed brand new makeup; Mom had clearly taken meticulous note of what shades and brands I liked, as the collection was a mirror copy of my previous favorites. At the bottom of the suitcase were two intriguing items – one a careful bundle encased in a Publix shopping bag and the other a hefty-looking wooden box that had been engraved with the crest of the O'Brien clan (Dad's Irish clan, through his mother's line).

I opened the shopping bag first, deciding that I wasn't quite ready to look at Dad's "old heirlooms". That could wait for another day; I wanted to forget for today that I was at all special, different, broken, or wrong.

The shopping bag fell open to reveal a riot of color, lace, and leather. I immediately felt the heat in my cheeks flush straight up toward my hairline – oh god, someone had found my stash of lingerie. There was a note folded neatly on the top of the pile and I opened it as cautiously as I would handle a stunned rattlesnake.

_Have fun, _Mom's lovely, loopy script flowed across the paper. _And no, I did not pack these in front of Kevin. I don't think the poor thing could handle such a scandal!_

_Oh god, Mom._ I could only laugh…and wonder what she knew that I didn't.

* * *

><p>Hallowe'en dawned bright and sunny, the sky an endless expanse of dusty blue straight toward the horizon. I decided it was a good day to do laundry and to haul myself out of bed. It was a brand new day and I had cried all the tears I could possibly cry in a 24-hour period. I stumbled to the kitchen, Pibs tucked against my arm, his little heart beating steadily against my ribs. I found a hand-written note stuck to the fridge with an ancient-looking magnet, signed by Kevin. All it said was that he had to leave again, that Dean and the rest would be home in at least 48 hours or so, and to not worry, he'd lock up after himself ("<em>Bobby needs the key back, anyway"<em>). I was kind of sad to read that he had gone – I had hoped to get to know something more about the young man, than that Bobby had sent him along on a mercy mission.

As I sipped hot, black coffee, I decided that it was time to finally accept my fate. I had some communication with Mom and Dad – true, it wasn't what I wanted, but it was better than the nothing I'd had for two and a half whole months. Kevin was now, most definitely, my new and undisputed BFF (even if he didn't know it. Yet.)

Having my things – and a good damn cry – had eased something inside of me. Holding my clothes, smelling my old house and all the scents I associated with love, family, and security, had given me something like hope. The gentle weight of the cross around my neck helped me embrace a surprisingly peaceful sort of acceptance. This was my life now; I needed to have fun, as Mom said, and be brave, as Dad had encouraged. Sergeant Kelly Remington had officially been given the keys to a whole new life – I might as well run like hell with it.

That of course, did nothing to solve any of my problems, but it bolstered my spirits, strengthened my resolve. I needed to stop flailing about like a damsel in distress – time to take charge, buck up, and keep a stiff upper lip. Who knew when (or if) my name would ever be cleared? I couldn't wait around for fate to shuffle me a different hand. The only way to change my current situation was to play the cards that I'd been given.

So, with that decided, I set down my empty coffee mug and decided that today was a good day to do laundry.

* * *

><p>"<em>Sweat:<br>Dripping down your chest.  
>Thinking 'bout your tattooed knuckles<br>On my thigh boy (boy boy).  
>Cold shower... you got no<br>Power to control  
>How I make you my toy (toy toy).<br>My hips rocking,  
>As we keep lip locking;<br>Got the neighbors screaming  
>Even louder, louder.<br>Lick me down like you were  
>Rolling rizla,<br>I'm smoking...  
>Come and put me out…."<em>

Something stretched and yawned inside of me in response to the heavy beat of one of my old favorites. I'd plugged in my Nook and turned the volume up as loud as it would go. I then placed it on the table that stood by the window on the second-floor mezzanine. The acoustics were fantastic there and the pounding drums echoed off of the tile floors, vaulted ceiling, and stone walls. I hadn't quite meant to pick something quite as provocative as "Problem", but I'd been in a mood for Natalia Kills and…well…this came on and I wasn't about to change it.

My hips rolled with the rhythm of the lyrics. I was about as graceful as a lumberjack when it came to dancing, but I could never sit still when "Problem" came on. It was simply one of those songs that spoke straight to my primal instincts and prompted heat, movement, sex. I had often thought that, if I completely lost my mind and became a stripper, that this would be my signature song.

"_I'm your dream girl;  
>This is real love.<br>But you know what they say about me...  
>That girl is a problem,<br>Girl is a problem,  
>Girl is a problem, problem.<br>Oh Baby,  
>You so bad boy,<br>Drive me mad boy,  
>That you don't care what they say about me...<br>That girl is a problem,  
>Girl is a problem,<br>Girl is a problem, problem."_

I sang along loudly, feeling completely unfettered by the otherwise unoccupied Bunker. I'd been so incredibly turned on by the song, that I hadn't even stopped myself when I rolled my shoulders out of Dean's old shirt, shimmied my panties down to the floor, and tossed both into the second-hand washing machine.

It felt fucking amazing to be so absolutely uninhibited. The Bunker was cool against my skin, but I reveled in the decadent, naughty sensation of prancing about in the skin God gave me and absolutely, positively nothing else. I didn't really know what possessed me, but my breasts felt heavy, my core was practically humming with latent, sinful need, and I felt wild. I was gripped by the sudden, irrational, and completely overwhelming desire to run – outside, naked, through the brittle autumn grass and the early winter snow. I wanted to hunt, I wanted to be hunted. I wanted to drag my body down against the frost-hard ground and fight for dominance against an even harder body. I wanted to bare my teeth, I wanted to laugh, and pant, and fuck. I wanted to feel fingers, tongue, and cock in me and on me. I wanted to taste skin, blood, sweat. I wanted to cum, howling freely to the sun and sky above, as Dean thrust up and shattered apart inside of me.

Fuck. Dean. What would he think if he saw me like this? Could he even handle me? Could I handle myself, if he saw me swishing my hips up the stairs, my breasts swaying with need and temptation?

I dropped the now-empty laundry basket on one of the wing-back chairs by the window and my Nook. I could practically feel the beat of the song, rising, rushing, and cresting repeatedly through my veins. My hips kept rolling, as I paused long enough to sweep my long, freshly-dyed hair up into a ponytail. I had just done it, the color brilliant in the bathroom mirror. "Cinnaberry" was the name on the box, and it had dyed my hair a rich, smoky auburn. I loved it, loved the feel of my silky strands sliding smoothly through my fingers, loved the way the color and sensations made me feel wicked.

I snapped my ponytail holder around my hair at precisely the same time that I heard an almighty crash downstairs, by the map table. Startled, I turned – only to stare wide-eyed and disbelieving into Dean Winchester's upturned face.

"_I got your name  
>Hanging from my chain...<br>Don't you wanna claim  
>My body like a vandal?<br>You got the cure  
>Underneath your shirt...<br>Don't you wana save this  
>Dirty little damsel?<br>Got my mink coat falling on the  
>Motel floor... you're on the bed,<br>Wolf whistling louder, louder.  
>Your lips smudging all my<br>Make up... kicking both my heels off.  
>Come and pin me down"<em>

Fuck. Me.

The look on Dean's face said that he wanted to do precisely that. I barely registered that Sam had also appeared, his jaw hanging open in utter shock, before I whirled quickly on my heel and sprinted for all I was worth toward the third-floor stairs.

Dean's boots fell in tandem with the drums rolling across the Bunker. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I was fast and I had a head start, but he had longer legs and a desire that threatened to consume us both. I got to the stairs, all too aware that he was fast approaching my back.

I hauled ass up the stairs, focused intently on making it to my bedroom door before he made it to my body. I made a critical mistake, though, about two stairs from the landing – I glanced behind me, to gauge just how far behind Dean was. He was already placing a foot on the bottom stair and before I could react in anyway, my bare left foot caught on the top step and compromised my balance.

I tumbled to the floor, ass up, my advantage totally destroyed. The best I could do now was to roll as quickly as I could onto my back and brace myself for a well-aimed, instinctive kick to his groin.

I wasn't able to move so much as a muscle, before hardened, calloused hands grabbed my hips and jerked me back toward a decidedly solid body. The music still pounded up the stairs, as clear as it had been when I'd stood right next to it.

"_I'm your dream girl,  
>This is real love,<br>But you know what they say about me...  
>That girl is a problem,<br>Girl is a problem,  
>Girl is a problem, problem.<br>Oh Baby,  
>You so bad boy,<br>Drive me mad boy,  
>That you don't care when they say about me...<br>That girl is a problem,  
>Girl is a problem,<br>Girl is a problem, problem."_

A jean-covered knee came into direct contact with my pussy, as Dean hauled my body tight against his. I had managed to pull myself to my hands and knees, but that didn't improve the situation whatsoever. Fuck. I couldn't help twitching when his knee nudged my clit and a needy little mewl slithered between my lips.

"Fuck," Dean echoed my sentiment in a rough, ragged voice.

His right hand palmed the curve of my ass and before I could cope with anything at all, he grabbed my waist and flipped me over on my back. I sprawled helplessly, my legs opened around his thighs, my hands flapping uselessly against the worn carpet. I was stretched out in front of him in all my glory and Dean's eyes fairly blazed as he memorized every inch of my curvaceous display.

"_THAT GIRL  
>IS A GOD DAMN PROBLEM.<br>THAT GIRL  
>IS A GOD DAMN PROBLEM.<br>THAT GIRL  
>IS A GOD DAMN PROBLEM.<br>We're hell raising,  
>And we don't need saving."<em>

I thought he would descend swiftly upon me, mouth open and hand at his belt. But, he knelt on the stairs just below me, his hands tightly – but chastely – gripping my waist, his entire body quivering with desire and taunt with repression. Dean just stared, drinking me in, lust clearly warring with his better instincts.

I had a chance to catch my breath. What did I want? Did I even dare…? I eyed him, my gaze turning slowly to one of calculation. Dean seemed oblivious to the change, his eyes riveted firmly to the black ink that curved around my back and cupped the generous heft of my breasts.

Oh. Oh my. Dean hadn't yet seen the full extent of my tattoo despite the tank tops and skimpy shorts he'd manipulated me into wearing, despite the dreams we had shared. It was only partially complete – I had planned it in four stages and the tattoo artist had only managed to start the first stage, around my lower back and upper thighs, before my life had ricocheted off into this hot mess.

"_'Cause there's no salvation for a bad girl;  
>We're rock bottom,<br>But there ain't no stopping.  
>'Cause they don't know nothing about love;<br>We're hell raising,  
>And we don't need saving.<br>'Cause there's no salvation for a bad boy;  
>We're rock bottom,<br>But there ain't no stopping.  
>'Cause it's you and me against the world."<em>

We stayed locked in agonizing stasis for seconds that felt like whole millenniums. And the entire time, my thoughts spun around and around, tumbling through a mixture of hedonistic lyrics, sensuous awareness, common sense, and primal need.

Have fun, Mom's note had said. And hadn't I just promised myself this morning that I was going to take this life by the horns? Sure, Dad had soundly advised that I keep my hands to myself, but it had been so fucking goddamn long and the bitch inside of me just wanted to fuck.

God so help me, I wanted Dean stretched out on the floor beneath me, hands above his head, shirt and pants torn open around him, his hips hurtling upward as mine rocketed down toward his. Hadn't I promised myself that I'd let go of this fucking passive-submissive bullshit?

"_I'm your dream girl;  
>This is real love,<br>But you know what they say about me...  
>That girl is a problem,<br>Girl is a problem,  
>Girl is a problem, problem.<br>Oh Baby,  
>You so bad boy,<br>Drive me mad boy,  
>That you don't care when they say about me...<br>That girl is a problem,  
>Girl is a problem,<br>Girl is a problem, problem."_

I surged upward, common sense abandoned to my baser urges. I grabbed the lapels of Dean's leather jacket and crashed my lips against his. The seconds now spiraled out of control, as he responded eagerly to my bossy tongue. We recklessly fucked each other's mouth, our teeth cutting against our lips, blood tangling darkly with the taste of one another, our tongues devouring each other. Liquid fire erupted inside my veins and traveled swiftly into my swollen core; I ground myself carelessly against the knee he'd pushed between my legs and I could feel his jeans there growing damp with my desire.

I could have howled, could have wrestled him to the ground, could have ridden him without mercy or gentleness to spare. Fuck. This was heat, fire, desire, abandon, and fury like I'd never felt before. I could feel my orgasm building fiercely, pulling my body tight and dry, and I all but smiled in triumph against the heaving breath of Dean's mouth.

Fuck Dean Winchester. Fuck him into oblivion. Fuck him and his stupid fucking games. I was riding this out and there was fuck-all he could about it.

Or, at least, that was my intention.

"_Let me see you take your  
>Shirt, shoes, jeans, all off.<br>Shirt, shoes, jeans, all off.  
>And we ain't even at the beach.<br>I'm a take my  
>Skirt, boots, rings, all off.<br>Skirt, boots, rings, all off.  
>And we ain't even at the beach..."<em>

At the words, my fingernails clawed at the front of Dean's tightly-stretched black undershirt. His deep red over-shirt was already hanging open, so his buttons were spared for the time being. I hauled the bottom of his undershirt up over the ridged curve of his stomach and had every intention of divesting him of such irritating inhibitions. I wanted to press my breasts against his flushed skin, wanted to catch my teeth against his nipples, wanted to grab his hair and pull his fucking talented mouth down over my nipple rings.

Unfortunately Sam, the ever-loving, over-sized brat, tried to bring Dean to his senses.

"What the fuck are you two doing?!" his words echoed loudly, his voice raised above the hypnotic rhythm still emanating from my Nook. "Dean, do you only have sex-hormones for brain cells?!"

Dean paid absolutely no mind to his brother; instead, he chuckled sinfully against my frantic mouth and reached up to grab my hair just underneath my ponytail. I yelped loudly, startled, as he practically pulled me backwards toward the floor. I couldn't grind my hips with my back arched so sharply and I cried out in sheer frustration. I had been two or three good thrusts away from release.

My hands reached up to scrabble madly at Dean's chest. Sam kept hollering from the bottom of the stairs. Then Bobby barreled into the mess, fists swinging. The older man said absolutely nothing at all as his clenched knuckles drove home soundly into the side of Dean's rough jaw.


End file.
